by Ellyn, Court
“You don’t think … ,” Rhoslyn began lowly. “I mean … you’ve read of ogres, Kieryn, haven’t you?”
“Ogres, my ass,” Kelyn barked. “Let’s move.” Could it be fear that caused him to speak so severely?
“In tales,” Rhoslyn went on, “ogres eat the rotten flesh of animals and children.”
“Yes, in tales,” Kelyn argued. “Not in Aralorr and certainly not near Ilswythe. They’re as imaginary as—”
“As avedrin?” Kieryn put in.
“It was wolves,” Kelyn insisted flatly. He wheeled Chaya around and led the party at a brisk canter toward the gatehouse and away from the night stealing down from the mountains.
~~~~
Dining on the dais, Kieryn felt like a curiosity on display. He endured the gawking eyes and snake-like whispers with only a little less politeness than did the rest of his family. He picked at a breast of widgeon and guzzled the wine. The flush of heat that the wine put into his cheeks was a match for the burning in his hand and the anger in his belly. Well aware of the scrutiny to which he had condemned his twin, Kelyn avoided Kieryn’s glance, and Kieryn did not spare him a gesture of pardon.
Suspended above the double doors, the dusty silver harp might’ve thrummed notes of mockery, the long dead musician avenging himself with Kieryn’s humiliation. Those delicate strings were suddenly more than a tie to legendary wars and nameless enemies; they had become a silver web enmeshing Kieryn in a terrible mystery. To whom had the harp belonged? Might his tie to the instrument be other than blood on the battlefield?
Kieryn peered down the table; Da conversed lowly with King Rhorek. When Da sipped from his goblet, Kieryn saw that his eyes were quick and wary, on the verge of hostile. Nearly everyone who mattered to Kieryn had risked approaching his ‘dark powers’ to ask how he fared. Even the king had sent for Kieryn before supper to thank him for saving his life. But Da hadn’t so much as glanced his direction.
Elven blood. As if Keth’s disappointment in his bookish son wasn’t enough. Surely Da loathed him now. Elven blood. But if Kieryn had it, Kelyn had to have it, too. Why did Da not just as disgusted with Kelyn?
Any number of these people, dressed prettily in velvet and jewels and dining politely on pear-glazed duck, might share the blood of elves. Maybe the ladies of Lunélion who were fierce and tall, and if the Princess Mazél, why not her nephew the king? But unless that blood manifested itself as Kieryn’s had, these scandal-hungry highborns could pity him, loathe him, dread him, and remain safe from hypocrisy.
After dinner, Kelyn was easier to forgive. The two knights-initiate were to spend the evening preparing for tomorrow’s ceremony. Laral was given permission to assist Leshan, and Kieryn was overjoyed when Kelyn asked him to play squire, too. In his brother’s rooms, he polished every inch of the marvelous sword and scabbard that Kelyn had won; then he set to a pair of steel spurs, and the black enameled helm that, when worn, would mimic the ‘helmet’ markings of a falcon’s plumage.
Alovi and Esmi arrived with the uniform of an Aralorri knight: a heavy chain-mail hauberk, short-sleeved, mid-thigh in length; gray quilted undershirt; black breeches; black leather boots, knee high; and a surcoat of bright Aralorri-blue velvet. Ilswythe’s sigils was emblazoned across the chest: a black spread-winged falcon gripping a longsword in its talons. These had been in the make for a couple of years now, in anticipation for this occasion. The timing, Kieryn decided sarcastically, couldn’t be better.
Along with them, tucked secretively into the surcoat’s hidden breast pocket, was the unmentionable leather pouch into which a small amount of Kelyn’s ashes would go were he slain on some far-flung field. Alovi had lovingly embroidered it with Ilswythe’s falcon and sword,
While Kieryn laid out the garments, Alovi prepared Kelyn’s bath with perfumed oils—the same that were applied to the dead before their burning. In the heat of war, there was often too little time and too little supply to administer the oils upon casualties, and so knights were ceremonially doused upon their investiture. Though Kelyn liked to have the pretty maids attend to his bath, he laughed with embarrassment as his mother performed the task as if he were a babe again. But to Alovi, her babe was exactly whom she bathed. She performed the rite of cleansing solemnly, whispering nary a word. As Kieryn had suggested, Kelyn offered nothing to alleviate the fear and grief shadowing her green eyes.
Kieryn couldn’t stand seeing the sadness there. Lurking on the threshold of Kelyn’s dressing room, he said, “You’re going to break hearts tomorrow, brother. You’ll find some lovely lady on your exploits and bring her back to Ilswythe, just like Father did.”
Kieryn achieved his aim. Alovi smiled, and a spark returned to her eyes. Yes, remind her this must happen. Her boys must leave her, run the gauntlet to become men and win lives of their own. Remind her that happiness may come of it, too.
With a kiss to his brow, she departed and Esmi followed. Kieryn stayed to fetch anything his brother might need, though food and wine were forbidden him, and to keep him company through his vigil. Tradition demanded that Kelyn spend the night kneeling on the hearth, praying to the Mother-Father and contemplating the vows he would take upon the morrow. For two hours he did so; Kieryn even thought he looked sincere with his head bowed toward the flames and his eyes closed. But finally the stillness proved too much, and Kieryn was more of a distraction than a help. The twins spent the rest of the night sitting cross-legged on the hearthside rug, talking of nothing important, not of war or assassins or burned hands, but of the times they hunted below Mount Drenéleth, and when they hid high up in Mum’s great andyr tree for a whole day and sent the household into a panic, and when they spied on the village girls swimming in the Avidan.
These memories were precious jewels that Kieryn wanted to keep and cherish, but Kelyn seemed to speak of them so he could lay them aside.
~~~~
For Last Day, the highborns turned out, not in their finest silks, but in their travel clothes. Rarely had they seemed more eager to flee the Assembly, but ceremony forced them to bite at the bit a few hours longer. The knights-initiate looked resplendent in shimmering mail and cerulean surcoats. Admiring her son as he descended to one knee before the dais, Lady Alovi tried to find the joy in the occasion. The scent of the funerary oils still clung to her hands. But how fine they looked, Kelyn and Leshan, so strong and brave and happy. This was the day they had dreamt of, prepared for, since they were old enough to sit a saddle and swing a stick in place of a sword. But did they realize what would come after? So soon.
The twins were still nursing when King Reod had summoned his knights, and Keth had ridden away to battle the Fierans; the boys were walking when Keth returned wearing the red-plumed helm of the War Commander, the helm Lord Kynor had given him as he lay dying on the banks of the Bryna. After that, Keth was not the carefree youth who had ridden away.
In Kelyn’s upturned face, Alovi saw who Keth had been. She wondered, did Lady Andett see a younger Lander in Leshan’s smiling eyes? The parents of the initiates stood on the dais to each side of the king as official witnesses; on Alovi’s right, Kieryn waited on hand with Kelyn’s prize sword. He had refused to bandage his fingers; the flesh looked stiff and raw, but he smiled at his brother with unmasked and ignorant pride. Alovi tried to smile, too.
In robes of pristine white linen, Etivva mounted the dais. Her head was freshly shaven. She spread her brown hands wide and bestowed Ana-Forah’s warning upon initiates and spectators alike: “May he who has ears and he who has eyes bear witness. Words spoken are the expression of the heart. Every vow made by the pure of heart is sacred to the Speaker of the first word. Let he who swears never stray.”
She stood aside and Rhorek recited the vow of the Aralorri knight, “Do you, Kelyn, son of Keth, swear to protect your king and countrymen against all threat, dishonor, and insult? Do you swear to remain loyal to your king against all treasonous thought and action? Do you swear to fight with courage, honor, fairness, and fortitude? Do you
swear to adhere to the virtues of character, living a life of integrity, bringing honor to yourself, your sovereign, and your kin? Upon your honor and your life, do you, Kelyn, so swear?”
Bowing his head, Kelyn answered, “I do so swear, sire.”
Rhorek repeated the questions for Leshan, and he bowed his fair head and swore.
Rhorek nodded at Kieryn. He stepped forward with Kelyn’s prize and presented it to the king with a bow. Taking it in hand, Rhorek commanded, “Rise, noble knight, and don your sword.” The Black Falcon himself secured the black leather belt about Kelyn’s waist and kissed him on each cheek. Laral approached with Kelyn’s spurs and helmet, but Kieryn interceded. He tucked the falcon helmet under Kelyn’s left arm and though his burned fingers worked clumsily, buckled the spurs to Kelyn’s boots. He failed to see the mist rising in Kelyn’s eyes and Keth smiling on both his sons. But Alovi saw.
She was pleased that Kieryn’s demonstration of loving servitude was not lost on Laral. Sometimes she worried that she had taught Laral too well a squire’s objective sense of duty, but after King Rhorek belted the sword about Leshan’s waist, Laral gave his older brother the helmet and spurs, then flung long scrawny arms about him. Leshan laughed and mussed Laral’s curls and told him to behave or he would make their mother cry. Lady Andett dabbed her eyes with a kerchief.
Alovi felt herself smiling without effort. But as Etivva spoke the closing prayer, her joy grew stale: “We beseech thee, Mother and Father of all, to protect these warriors with hands of mercy and to clasp them to your bosom in life and in death.”
For the banquet, Rhorek invited Kelyn and Leshan to sit on each side of him. Festive laughter emanated from the center of the high table, but Alovi noticed that the convivial attitude grew markedly cooler the farther one sat from the dais. Lord and lady alike were anxious to return home and prepare their people for war. In the courtyard and along the road descending to the village, trains of horse, baggage, servants, and guards stood ready to depart the instant Rhorek gave them leave. Like algae on a stagnant pond, the anxiety had thickened since morning; Alovi heard it with every dropped fork and saw it every time a squire lifted away a hastily emptied plate. Was Alovi the only one who dreaded the inevitable? She found herself glancing from face to face, wondering who would never again dine at her table. The fierce warrior ladies of Lunélion perhaps, or mild soft-spoken Lord Davhin, whose archers would surely lead the assault? She could not contemplate the part Kelyn would play; she could scarcely imagine her son swinging that lovely sword with intent to kill, savage and desperate, surrounded, struggling … Alovi gasped and reeled in her chair.
“Mother?” Kieryn’s hand gripped her shoulder. She held to him and righted herself, hoping no one else had seen. She was foolish to let her mind run away with her. She had to be strong for her boys … at least, until they had ridden away.
“I’m all right,” she said.
Kieryn filled her goblet with Doreli red and pressed it into her hand.
“You’re suggesting I drown my fears, son?”
“I’ve found that doesn’t work,” he replied.
She sighed, only half in jest. “Pity. I was ready to become a drunk.”
“Not you, Mum.”
Had she really fooled him? She didn’t think so. Not Kieryn. Rather he was asking her to be brave, because he was afraid, too. She touched his cheek; it had the roughness of a man’s, but his eyes were large and blue and very much the eyes of a child. A child who still trusted her to be the granite pillar called Mother. She couldn’t tell him that the pillar was full of flaws and vulnerabilities. For his sake, she put on the brave mask he expected to see and sipped the wine with a smile.
At the center of the table, Rhorek was telling a rousing tale of his days as a knight, a tale Keth disagreed with and felt obliged to correct, “with His Majesty’s pardon.” Kelyn and Leshan found the argument amusing, and even Keth was soon laughing.
Kieryn watched them from the far end of the table with obvious longing. Ever the pillar, Alovi pried it out of him, “What troubles you, son?”
He fell back in his chair and fidgeted with his dessert spoon. He started to reply half a dozen times and finally stammered, “I wish … I mean, I regret … almost …”
“You wish now you had been knighted with your brother?”
He nodded.
“To make your father happy?”
“Maybe then he would forget about …” He lifted the scarred hand, dropped it again into his lap.
“Oh, Kieryn,” she said, the old pain rising, “what you did for your brother this morning greatly pleased your father.”
The bitter twist to his mouth said he didn’t believe her. “I didn’t do it for Da.”
That evening, Alovi confronted her husband. Most of the highborns had scattered for home. Rhorek had decided to wait at Ilswythe until Keth’s cavalry and militia had assembled from across his lands. And for some reason, Lady Rhoslyn had also decided to delay her departure until the following morning. Out of courtesy, the Duke’s vassals waited to leave with her.
The castle was quieter now, though never wholly still. A servant shuffled past the door as Alovi whisked a brush through her hair and watched Keth in the mirror. He pulled his tunic over his head and tossed it on the dressing-room floor for Laral to pick up later.
“Well, you finally have what you want,” she said. “A knighted son.”
Keth smiled and balanced on one foot to tug off a boot.
“When I bathed him,” Alovi said, staring absently at the soft velvet rumples of the blue tunic, “I felt as if I were sending him to his pyre. But Kieryn reminded me that Kelyn’s leaving need not be an end. Life is taking him from me, not death. The Mother will lead my boys down the paths she has chosen for them. However long or short those paths may be.”
Keth must’ve heard only half her words, for he said, “Yes, Kelyn will make the finest of knights.”
Alovi pounced. “And what of Kieryn?”
The light of pride snuffed from Keth’s face.
She turned on the vanity stool, hand squeezing the handle of her brush like a throat. “You’ve not spoken to him since he killed that assassin, have you! If he’d slain the man with a knife or a sword, gotten blood all over his hands, you would congratulate him to no end. But because he struck with an ability you don’t have—”
“Don’t want to have,” Keth exclaimed. He made a show of searching for his bed robe inside the wardrobe, but his hand passed over it three times.
“Because that ability is avedra?”
Keth slammed the wardrobe shut. “No son of mine is such a thing!”
“So you’ve said, and yet he is. How can you keep denying it? Do you realize how it hurts him? How it hurts me?”
“You—?”
“Yes, me. Would you stop loving me if I could prove that his elven blood comes from me?”
He stared at her, stricken. After a reflective silence, he came to his knees before her, laid her brush atop the vanity, and kissed her hands. “Of course I could never stop loving you, Alovi.”
Softly, she asked, “Would you throw yourself onto a sword if the blood came from you?”
He snatched back his hands.
“That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? That you’ll be forced to swallow your pride and all those hateful words. But you would do it for Kieryn, wouldn’t you? For your son.”
Keth laid his head in her lap. She smoothed the hair from his eyes. They were so blue, his eyes, a dozen shades of blue, without a trace of green or gold or gray. Just like Kieryn’s. “His blood is ours, dearest. We can’t love him less for what we gave him.”
Keth exhaled heavily, like a child resigned to taking his medicine. “I’ll go talk to him.”
~~~~
Thyrra’s silver light and Forath’s ruddy glow illumined the jet of the fountain, making fire of water. Kieryn thought of blood. Despite his extensive reading, he could hardly envision the bloodshed his brother would soon f
ace. Tales of war described the making of heroes, the getting of glory. They tended to omit the terror and screams and stink and mourners left behind. Goddess, Mother and Father, he prayed, I am nothing, but hear me and spare my brother.
The moons hovered near one another. An auspicious time for declaring war, so said ancient tradition. But Kieryn wasn’t so sure. If the moons hover together over Aralorr, they hover together over Fiera. If it’s a fortuitous time to declare war, it’s a fortuitous time to meet the challenge. How can the position of the moons mean good luck for both sides?
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” The voice was too gruff to be Kelyn’s, even over the splash of the waters. Late as it was, the lamps in the Hall were rarely doused when guests stayed at Ilswythe. The dim glow backlit Da’s broader height. Half of his face was unknowable shadow, the other half hard planes and an indirect eye. “Everyone said ‘Look in the library’.”
Kieryn pushed the mane of hair from his face and gave his father a wary half-smile. “Moonlight walk before bed. Just the thing to put the dreamer to sleep.”
Keth’s one illumined eye pinned him, but he hadn’t the vaguest idea of how to respond to Kieryn’s sarcasm. “Well … I’ll be leaving with Rhorek in a few days, after my riders are gathered.” Was he merely nervous, or did he truly think Kieryn was so ignorant? “So I … need to tell you—”
“You don’t have to say anything, Da,” Kieryn interrupted, uncomfortable too, and on the verge of anger.
“No, I do, son. The way I’ve slighted you the past few days . . . the past several years … I’ve been wrong. I’ve made things difficult for you, but that was never my intention. Your mother, she’s the best of us. She made me realize that … well, you are what you are because of us … one of us, anyway. Maybe both. Who can say? So I admit my failure and came to apologize for it, and … well, I love you, son.”
Kieryn stood dumbfounded. Da was wrong and he loved his misfit son? This was too much to digest all at once. Keth placed a hard hand on Kieryn’s shoulder and asked, “Did you hear me?”
