by Robin Hardy
Chapter 16
Galapos stood gazing out the window at the wintry white. Each day he had come to the window like this just to look, and hope. But in his innermost heart he did not believe he would ever see Roman riding up the winding road toward the palace.
Releasing a heavy breath, he let his eyes fall to the nearest field, covered with a silky white blanket. Almost three months had passed since Roman’s headstrong departure to Corona, and in that time he had sent no message to Westford. Moreover, the whereabouts of their beloved Deirdre was as dark a mystery as ever.
Galapos was still gazing at the whiteness when Kam quietly approached. “Surchatain.”
“Yes, Kam?”
“A message has arrived from the Surchataine of Goerge—Sheva. She invites you to come feast with her and discuss the future of your provinces.”
“As the spider invited the fly,” Galapos snorted. “I wonder what deviltry that witch has in mind.”
“Shall I send a refusal, then?”
Galapos continued to rest his eyes on the white purity. “If we don’t face her down, then she schemes behind us. No, I’ll go. With such a mild winter as we’re having, it will be a pleasure to get out. And you will accompany me, Kam, but that is all,” he said in a subdued voice. Kam’s mouth opened in argument, but Galapos anticipated him: “Without numbers, we must have cunning, my friend. You will forgive me if I dress you as a servant.”
Kam bowed. “You may dress me as a woman if it will serve your purpose. But I’m a poor substitute for a bodyguard of soldiers, High Lord.”
“Don’t call me that. And you will serve me well. Send an acceptance to Sheva, then come back here. We have much to plan.”
Kam sent back the messenger carrying Galapos’ acceptance, then returned as ordered to the Surchatain’s chambers. Basil was already there, seated.
Galapos motioned for Kam to sit as he himself paced the room and thought aloud. “Counselor Basil—I am charging you with the rule of Lystra in my absence until the return of Commander Roman. When he comes back you will confer upon him the authority I have given you and tell him of our whereabouts. He must not follow us—that is a command. He must take charge of Westford and await us here. If I do not return, he is to be made Surchatain.”
“If he’s here,” Kam muttered. Galapos ignored him.
Basil asked, “Surchatain, do you suspect Sheva of evil designs on you?”
“Unquestionably.”
“Then, forgive me for questioning, but—why are you going?” Basil asked.
“Your question is entirely proper, Counselor. Let me explain it thus: once in a soldier’s life he may be issued a challenge which he knows he cannot win. But if he refuses the contest, then the challenge may be turned upon others less ready to fight than he. In accepting it, at least he diverts the enemy’s attention long enough to give his weaker allies a chance to strengthen their hand, and, if all goes well, defeat their common enemy.”
Galapos lapsed into silence, then resumed, “I believe I’ve done all I can here. The homeless have land, the villages have peace, and the palace is functioning as well as it can, due to your efforts. What we need now—men, and the means to pay them—I cannot produce like a magician. But perhaps by accepting Sheva’s invitation, I can direct her energy away from the hapless towns around her. I will go in prayer.”
“Surchatain,” Basil hedged, “I’m an administrator, not a ruler. I don’t know that I can do what you ask.”
“Yes, you can, Basil. I ask only that you see to the affairs of the palace and settle the disputes of the people until I return, or Roman comes to rule. You have wisdom aplenty to do that.”
Basil, still troubled, spoke his mind: “Surchatain, it must be said: What if . . . neither of you returns?”
Galapos stilled at the mention of the unthinkable. “In that event,” he said slowly, “I charge you to rule with all the wisdom God gives you. Safeguard the life of my grandson, and teach him, and when he is of age, put him on the throne.”
Basil stood to bow. “I swear it shall be done as you say.”
Galapos then turned to Kam. “You and I, my friend, will depart day after tomorrow if the weather holds. And I hope, before we reach Diamond’s Head, that I will have a strategy for us. Now, gentlemen, you will excuse me. I have yet another charge to administer.” He left the two men staring at each other in his chambers.
He went to Deirdre and Roman’s vacant room and removed an item hanging in the wardrobe. Then he entered the nursery. The plump, healthy nursemaid nodded to him and rose to leave, but he said, “Please stay, Gusta. You’ll need to hear this.”
He pulled up a chair beside the cradle and addressed the baby. “My child . . . I, too, am leaving you. I do not know if I will return. And I do not know that your father will return. I do not have the authority to bequeath to you title of Surchatain—that right belongs to your father. But this I give you.” He held up the gold medallion given to Roman long ago by his father.
“This has become something of a symbol to our family that our life and rule are preserved by God alone—not by our own strength. It is a reminder to us that if we cease to walk in His ways, we forfeit His protection and become prey for every evil on the earth. And it is a token to us that God delivers those who call on His name. I charge you to continue in the faith of your father and your grandfather, and to serve the only Lord who can save you.”
Galapos bent to kiss the baby, who gave him a delighted, toothless grin. Then Galapos stood and gave the medallion to the nursemaid. “I charge you to keep this for him, and to repeat those words to him every day of his life that his father is gone. If Roman returns, tell him my words.”
The nursemaid bowed, brushing a blond braid away from her tear-streaked cheek. “Yes, Surchatain. I swear to do this,” she said softly.
That night, after a subdued dinner, Galapos retired early to his chambers. He removed his coat and washed his face in the marble washbasin, then paused to survey the room in which he stood: the rich purple velvets draped over the windows and the bed; the plush, intricate rug which let no space of bare floor show; the elaborately carved mantel above the polished stone fireplace and the dancing fire; the tapestries of vibrant colors depicting royal life.
He stood up close to one needlework to examine the detail. The whole was composed of many tiny threads painstakingly woven together to create a complete work, each small stitch representing a moment of someone’s time. In the overall scheme, most of the stitches made up the background and were of one or two colors. Only at selected points was the background broken up to allow a figure, or a flower, to emerge. If it were not so, he mused, the scene would be a hopeless confusion of competing focal points.
So in a life . . . in the completed tapestry of a man’s lifespan, each moment of time spent waiting had its purpose—to provide background and reinforcement for the occasions one is called upon to act.
He turned from the tapestry. Now was a time to act, and there was no way around it. He could pray that Sheva would not have the men or means to take Lystra from him, but unless he rose to her challenge and confronted her, how would he know if his prayer had been granted? He would spend the remainder of his days fearfully watching the road from the east.
Where he stood, he sank to his knees. “Lord God Almighty, I’m scared. I’m scared of this woman and what she designs. I’m scared for this wobbly little state and those people who have entrusted me with their lives and the lives of their children. And I fear for my own children, Roman and Deirdre—are they even among the living?
“Further, Lord, I’m scared for the helpless, innocent baby who sleeps within these walls. What will become of him if neither Roman nor I return? Lord God, I beg you to stretch your hand of protection over us all. I beg you to go with me on this visit to hell I am preparing to make. God! Give me the strength and courage to act!”
He stopped, looking up. A burning log collapsed on the grate. Galapos did not see it, for his eyes were drawn to th
e stone walls. They were ordinary grey stone walls. Yet something about their weight, their strength, their solidity, was an illustration to him that his prayer had been heard.
As he lay down to sleep, snatches of the minstrel’s song ran through his mind: Your faith will stand, and from that act comes joy to us on earth.
At the appointed time, Galapos and Kam set out for Diamond’s Head. At first they agreed to make a straight path for the city, passing the remains of Outpost Three and arriving at their destination by nightfall. But when they measured their progress through snow drifts and ice patches, they saw the impossibility of making it in one day. Therefore, they opted for the somewhat longer route through Bresen to afford themselves the shelter of its inn overnight.
At dusk, after a day’s mute ride in biting cold and searing wind, the two travelers welcomed the sight of bustling Bresen with its crackling hearthfires and cooking pots full of savory stew. Their relief evaporated, however, as they drew into the city and saw the nature of its commerce. Even into the night, merchants and buyers were gathered around a large slave tent. Galapos’ eyes grew fiery and Kam uttered curses.
“This is a new business since I last was here,” Galapos muttered.
“If we only had an outfit with us, we’d shut their shop down fast,” declared Kam.
Galapos bitterly agreed. “I wonder now whether I was mistaken not to bring them.” They rode slowly past the tent, noting every person around it. “Three traders and six renegades that I can see,” Galapos whispered.
Kam added, “A seventh just left the tent.”
“Too many for us two. And look—there’s one I would be pleased to garrote—old Gerd.” Galapos gritted his teeth.
“What can we do?” Kam asked in an angry breath of steam.
Galapos sat so long thinking that a few renegades began to watch them suspiciously. He finally gave up: “I can think of nothing for now, but to return with men when we’re able.”
They found the inn and stabled their horses, then stamping and blowing, entered the warm glow of the dining hall. Galapos gestured to a serving girl, who brought them two large plates of beef hash, barley cakes, and ale.
As they ate and drank, their minds sharpened and they turned their attention to planning a two-man assault on Diamond’s Head. “When we get within the gates of the city,” Galapos instructed, “you will fall away from my side. I wish you to become a part of the crowd on the outside of the palace.”
“Surchatain! Leave you to go inside alone? Why?” Kam asked.
“If Sheva is planning mischief to me, you will be able to carry tidings back to Westford and organize our little defense accordingly. Otherwise, if you remained by my side, Sheva would certainly silence you.”
“Will Basil command our defenses, Surchatain?” Kam could not suppress the sarcasm in his voice.
“Roman must return soon,” Galapos answered straightforwardly. “And when he does, he will need you.” He did not say out loud, If he does not return, we are lost.
Kam nodded reluctantly, then stiffened. “Surchatain . . . that woman over there . . . she studies you intently.”
“I noticed. Perhaps the matron does not believe we are good for the bill,” Galapos said wryly, swigging his ale.
“Good thing the Counselor was able to sell some of the Chataine’s jewelry,” muttered Kam.
As if she had somehow overheard their conversation, the woman glanced about furtively and approached their table. “You are Galapos, ruler of Lystra?” she whispered.
“Yes, lady.” He eyed her in surprise.
“I have news for you. Privately.”
“My servant here is utterly trustworthy, matron. Have your say,” Galapos replied.
She hesitated, weighing their eyes. “Your daughter Deirdre passed through the slave market here some months ago, while it was yet autumn. Lord Troyce bought her for the Surchataine’s service. I promised her I would tell you this if I ever had the chance. I have kept my word.” And glancing around again, she retreated to the kitchen.
Galapos and Kam sat dumbstruck. Kam shot up from his seat. “Surchatain, we must ride back to Westford and gather every soldier—”
“No.” Galapos reached out and sat him back down. “We will go with our original plan.”
“You cannot mean—”
“Kam, listen! You know we don’t have the resources to attack a fortress in rock cliffs. Strength would not help us here, even if we had it! And there are crucial questions yet to be answered: If indeed this matron speaks the truth, does Sheva know that she has my daughter as a slave? Or is her invitation merely a coincidence? Use your reason, here, Kam! We must tread warily.”
Kam hunkered down on the bench. “You are treading into fire and brimstone.”
“In which case I will tread ever so lightly,” Galapos winked. He called the serving girl for more ale, then continued thoughtfully, “Kam, you were with us at the outpost.” The other nodded. “You saw the nature of our victory—how it came without my help or even my knowledge. Now, if God can work so great a deliverance as that, can’t He do whatever He wishes with this Sheva?” Kam looked skeptical.
“Besides,” Galapos added, “how do I know that God hasn’t sent me just this way for Deirdre’s rescue? If He can bring Tremaine’s whole army to ruin to save one man who prayed, can’t I trust Him with my life as well?”
“It may cost you your life,” Kam said dully.
“Everyone’s life is spent in time, Kam. The question is, on what? But if this is my appointed time, then I trust that God will bring good even from my death. It must be so.” The conviction in his statement left no space for debate. But Kam’s eyes were clouded with doubt.
That very evening at Westford, a troubled Basil rose from his bed, unable to sleep, and walked in the courtyard to let the cold night air shake him of his burdens. He was walking, and thinking, when his vision was suddenly blocked by the sight of a beautiful woman with long black hair. He pretended not to see her, for he thought he was imagining things.
But she took a step toward him and said, “I salute you, wise Counselor Basil.” She lowered herself to the ground in a bow.
“Who are you?” he exclaimed.
“My name is Varela, and I have come to announce that you will soon be the new Surchatain.”
He startled. “That is impossible,” he sputtered. “Galapos is the Surchatain, and he is only away for a time. But even if he does not return, his Commander and son-in-law Roman has been appointed—”
Varela shook her flowing blue-black hair. “Galapos and Roman will not return, Counselor Basil. They are both dead men. I have seen it.”
Basil began to tremble. “I don’t believe you. Who are you to know such things?”
“I have special sight to guide you in your rule, Surchatain. Historians will record your reign as the greatest on the Continent.”
He struggled inwardly. “No,” he said. “The babe is next in line to rule.”
“Can a babe rule?” she laughed. He was silent. “And babes pass away from us for no reason, sometimes,” she whispered. “They are so easily removed—”
“Silence, woman!” shouted Basil. “You speak murder and treason! Be gone from me!” Instantly she vanished, and Basil fled to his chambers, bolting the door behind him.
Chapter 17
Roman, grim, unkempt, drew back the tent flap and halted, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. A figure moved toward him and he gripped his sword under his cloak. “Speak quick your purpose, fellow,” the figure uttered.
“Have you slaves here?” Roman demanded, glancing around as his eyesight returned.
“A few. What’s it to you?” The fellow crossed his arms and Roman instinctively knew he had closed his hand over a breast knife.
“I am searching for a girl whom Gerd might have sold—”
“Ah ha!” laughed the other, uncrossing his arms. “The legendary seeker! Tell me, how did you lose a chataine?”
Roman’s heart
thumped in hope. “Have you seen her, then?”
“Well, perhaps,” he answered evasively, moving to one side. An alarm sounded in Roman’s head. “The question is, do you have enough money to buy her?”
“I will do whatever is necessary to release her,” Roman promised, watching him. The inner alarm rose to a shriek.
“You will, eh?” the other considered, but then committed the error of flicking his eyes from Roman’s face to a point behind him. Roman leapt sideways the instant a trader at his back knifed the air.
Roman rammed his sword into the man’s side and spun back to the first, placing his bloody blade firmly at the trader’s neck. “Answer me straight—where is she?”
“I don’t know!” the trader cried, throwing his hands up.
“Then how did you know I searched for a chataine?”
“It’s all over the camps—I just heard of you from the other traders! I swear I haven’t seen her!”
“If you have heard of me, then you have heard of her. Who bought her from Gerd?” demanded Roman.
“I don’t know, fellow—I swear it! We all laughed about it because no one knows of this girl you search for. You’re chasing a ghost!”
“No!” Roman shouted. “It isn’t so!” and he raised his sword to punish him for saying it.
The trader whipped out his knife in meager defense and suddenly Roman saw in his stance the attitude of the slaves—hopelessness, helplessness. This man was a slave himself, to a most cruel master. Will you slay the captives, now?
“Oh, Lord, no,” he moaned, withdrawing his sword and backing out of the tent.
Blinking in the brightness of the winter sun on snow, he thought he saw two men standing beside his horse. But when he looked again, there was no one, only the horse.
He felt himself suspended in the blustering cold, aching for home, aching for fear that the trader was right and Deirdre was dead. But he could not accept that. “I will never accept it until I see her myself, cold and still,” he swore. Weeping with the tiredness and the pain, he mounted to continue his quest.
