by Colt, K. J.
“Then ‘ave some more.” Arythan closed his eyes.
Eraekryst quickly swallowed the morsel and set the plate aside. “Who was seeking you? Why the need to flee and hide? Why did you not choose a name?”
“Why’re y’ talking so fast?”
“Durmorth, I…I beseech you: humor my curiosity.”
“Always the big words. I can’t understand ‘alf o’ what y’ say.” Arythan gave a shiver. “’S bloody cold.”
The Ilangien promptly found another blanket and awkwardly cast it upon the mage, wondering if it was not counterproductive to obtaining what he wanted. He sat down again and waited, tapping his feet anxiously.
“I was a bad son,” Arythan said at last, his voice just above a whisper. “M’ father knew enough to ‘ide ‘is mistakes. But I was bad, an’ I always escaped for a while.”
“For a while?”
“I ‘ad nowhere to go, an’ I always came back. My mistake. M’ father knew ‘ow to fix my mistakes.” Though his eyes were yet closed, a rare expression of grief crossed his face and was gone in an instant. “The end. Now go ‘way. I want to dream o’ pretty ladies an’ warm places where it rains candy.”
Eraekryst gave a thoughtful nod and watched his friend drift to sleep, wondering if his dreams were truly so blissful but knowing better.
This is maddening. Arythan shifted and turned slightly in the cot, but it seemed he had spent all the possible comfortable positions he could manage. One twist too far moved his foot, which punished him with renewed pain. Whatever Diana had given him also left him achy, weak, and nauseated. What was more, and perhaps more importantly, his upset stomach demanded an outhouse. He lifted his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow on his sleeve.
Eraekryst was nowhere in sight, though Arythan had noticed that all the jars and bottles on the shelves had been arranged according to their shape and color. The dried herbs hanging from the rafters were not so dry anymore; they had sprouted new leaves and buds, some of them now with roots that sought refuge in the cracks of the plaster and planks. There was a peculiar odor in the air that even Arythan could detect, the source of which sat in a large bowl upon the table. Whatever the Ilangien had concocted, it was the color of moldy cheese and had all the appearance of freshly unearthed clay. Atop the mass stood a crane-like creature fashioned from leaves and twigs. Arythan had found a similar creature atop his hat. She did me a kindness, and you made certain to piss her off, he had thought.
Already the morning light was prying past the shutters, illuminating strange shapes upon the walls and the shop’s only patient. One particular stripe of light fell directly into Arythan’s eyes, and it seemed to follow him no matter how he positioned himself. This, coupled with his physical need, and the desire not to be present when Diana Sherralin appeared, coaxed him to find a way outside.
Arythan sat up and gingerly eased his legs over the side of the cot. If nothing else, he would crawl, find a good-sized tree to hide behind, take care of business, and return before anyone knew the wiser. His stomach cramped, and he took a deep breath, waiting for the pain to pass. That was when he spied the shovel next to the front door; he would much rather hobble than crawl.
With some effort and more than a little pain, Arythan managed to quit his bed, reach the shovel, and make his way outside. He even found the outhouse, where he accomplished his goal and earned himself relief as well as a growing sense of self-satisfaction. He was on his way back into the cottage when he heard a familiar voice call to him.
“Quolonero.”
Arythan’s face reddened in fury. I will hurt you— He spun to see Eraekryst striding down the street, golden hair flowing behind him, eyes bright as stars, and a proud smile upon his face. Behind him was a procession: sheep, pigs, goats, chickens, and even a few children. Arythan nearly dropped the shovel.
“I have found company upon my morning stroll,” Eraekryst admitted, drawing nearer.
Arythan was speechless.
“Your ankle has healed?” he asked, then turned his questioning eyes to the shovel.
“Y’ need to return them,” Arythan said, finding his voice. “Now.”
“There is no harm done,” Eraekryst said with a wave of his hand. “Anyway, ’tis not as though I had invited them. They invited themselves.”
“Right. Tell that to their owners…parents,” Arythan amended upon seeing the children. “They’ll think y’ stole them. Or cast a spell.”
“Nonsense.”
“By the Golden Sword,” came a voice from behind them. “What have you done?” Diana was at her door, staring at them.
“One would think I have razed the village,” Eraekryst said, offended. One of the goats nuzzled his hand.
Arythan took a deep breath. “Either way, y’ll get us in trouble. I really don’ want trouble.”
Diana stalked up to them and rounded on Arythan first. “I am not accustomed to such blatant disregard for my assistance,” she said, her eyes boring into the mage. “What do you think you are doing?”
Arythan glanced at the herd of animals and children, then back at her. He pointed to the outhouse.
“You should have told me,” she said. “I would have given you a—”
“No,” Arythan said. Then he handed her the shovel and eased himself to the ground. “Sorry, but m’ foot ‘urts.” He watched with some satisfaction as she bit her lip in frustration.
“And what have you to say for the condition of my shop?”
Arythan shrugged and nodded toward Eraekryst. “Ask ‘im, though my guess is ‘e got bored.”
“I made your morning meal,” Eraekryst said, as though that would improve her mood.
“Oi, ’s that was that was?” Arythan asked, having given up on the situation. It was far too ridiculous to take seriously. “I thought ’twas a statue or a lil’ lastoq.” He did not know the common word for sculpture.
“Perhaps it was both,” Eraekryst said defensively. “Edible artwork. You did not try it, then.”
“It smelled of soured milk,” Diana said, her face flushed. “And you ruined all my dried herbs.”
“Not intentionally.”
“And my ingredients!”
“’Twas wholly intentional, I confess.”
“What is wrong with the both of you?” she demanded.
“Don’ drag me into this,” Arythan protested. “I ‘ad to go. ’S not a crime.”
There were some shouts down the road, and several of the townsfolk appeared, fingers pointing in their direction.
“Erik,” Arythan reminded.
“Very well.” The Ilangien faced his followers. “Begone. Return from whence you came.” He waved his hand dismissively, and to Arythan’s and Diana’s surprise, beasts and children turned around and left.
“You’re some kind of charmer,” Diana said, the anger gone from her voice. “An enchanter.”
“Nay, Lady. I am merely well-liked by all but you.” Eraekryst folded his arms. “Would you prefer I restore the disorder to your materials?”
The healer’s expression tightened again. “No. You have done enough. Perhaps I’ll take you to the castle myself.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Eraekryst said, sitting next to his friend. “The ruffians in black are nearly here. We will meet them where we are.”
Diana stared at them until moments later, when there was the sound of a rolling cart and several horses. She looked on, incredulous, as Eraekryst’s prediction manifested. The mage was helped into the bed of the cart, and the Ilangien sat beside the driver.
“Thanks, luv,” Arythan said with a nod. Then they were off, heading toward Crag’s Crown.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WELCOMED GUESTS
KING MICHAEL GARRIKER II was away on a business venture, so Prince Michael had been waiting to welcome back his guests. He played his role as host well, expressing his sympathies over Arythan’s injury and the tragedy of the Crimson Dragon. He was cordial and polite, almost to the point of being over
bearing. He allowed them to ingest the sight of castle activity, and he had a narration for just about everything they saw. The bailey was little different from a small city. There were chickens roaming, a stable that echoed with the clanging of the blacksmith, an orchard surrounded by gardens of herbs and vegetables, women washing linens at a large water basin, and a smell that reached even Arythan’s nose: the mixture of foods being prepared in the kitchen. All this was contained within the castle’s outer walls, though at the heart of the grand space stood the keep. It was a modified tower, grand enough to contain the great hall and the living quarters of the king’s family.
“You had performed for us in the hall, and I have arranged for you and Lord Sparrow to stay in the guest rooms…though they are on the second level, I’m afraid,” Michael said.
“’Twill keep him from wandering needlessly,” Eraekryst said, and Arythan frowned.
Prince Michael himself assisted Arythan from the cart and supported him as they walked. “I keep in good shape for my fencing,” he said, and it bothered him little to serve as Arythan’s crutch. They entered through the great hall’s massive doors, into the familiar space with its vaulted ceiling, balcony, carriage-sized hearth, brilliant tapestries, and blood-hued windows. Rather than an open space, as it had been when they had performed, there were large tables with benches and chairs.
“This is where we dine,” Michael said. “Lord Sparrow is invited to join us for our meals, though I will see to it that yours are brought to you, Medoriate.”
Arythan said nothing as they headed for the stairwell. In fact, he had said nothing from the moment the prince had greeted them at the inner gate, though Michael seemed not to notice. After a slow climb, they reached the second level and did not have to walk far before reaching the guest room. The first door on their left was ajar, and the prince pushed it open to reveal a grand bed with a canopy. The feathered mattress, pillows, and blankets were layered upon it like the thick clouds upon a mountain peak. There was a fireplace, a cushioned chair, more red-glass windows, and a heavy chest and wardrobe made of polished cherry. A tapestry of a fox hung behind the bed, and there was a similar image upon the rug on the floor.
Sieqa, Arythan thought in awe.
“This is adequate,” Eraekryst said, strolling around the interior. He poked the bed with his finger.
“We are readying the neighboring room for you, Lord Sparrow,” Michael said. “I will see to it you are in want of nothing.” He helped Arythan to the bed and assessed his guests. “I think that now I will leave you to some rest, but I will return later to see how you fare.”
Arythan gave him a nod, and Eraekryst bowed. The prince left, and once the door was closed, the Ilangien presented the room with a flourish. “The prince himself caters to us. They will fight hard for your acceptance of this position.”
“Position?” Arythan gritted, struggling to climb atop the bed. “I ‘aven’t even thought about that.”
Eraekryst began opening the drawers to the chest. “You can be certain that is their motive in harboring us.”
“An’ for murdering our mates too?” Arythan could not restrain his dark response. This thought had been festering inside him like an infected wound. “Not a good way to win m’ favour.” He propped his leg on a pillow and eased back against the cushioned headboard.
“I knew you thought as much,” Eraekryst said casually. “Do you not think ’tis too extreme a measure? The Yellow were not of this kingdom, nor did they act upon Cerborath’s behalf.”
“Oi, an’ ‘is blokes jus’ ‘appened to come when we needed them.” Arythan lowered his scarf to reveal his scowl. “Not bloody likely.”
“’Tis not what I implied, Durmorth.” Once all the drawers were open, he proceeded to the wardrobe to do the same. “Perhaps these were two unrelated occurrences. Cerborath’s king has us followed with the intent of persuasion. Our journey was interrupted, and they were—not coincidentally—there to assist us.”
“I told ‘im no,” Arythan said, scratching his chin.
“Not everyone is so easily convinced of a negative response. After all, you refused the offer of a regent. Do you fathom ‘no’ is a word that often reaches his ears?”
The mage shook his head. “Then ‘ow do y’ explain us? The only survivors.”
Eraekryst discovered a mirror inside the wardrobe door. He smiled and angled it so that he could see his friend’s reflection. “The Yellow wanted us alive. The Crimson Dragon were the offenders in harboring us; they were an obstacle and consequently expendable.”
Arythan wrestled with his boot. “What would they ‘ave done with us?”
“An interesting question to which I do not have an answer. What do mortal extremists do when they wage their battles?”
In one swift motion, the mage launched his boot to hit the door aside, excluding him from the reflection. Eraekryst barely managed to step beyond the projectile’s path. He turned to stare at Arythan. “You might have hit me.”
Arythan shrugged. “Nah. Y’ knew ’twas coming.”
The boot flew to Eraekryst’s hand, and he gazed at it thoughtfully. “I am not omniscient.”
Arythan readied himself for the Ilangien’s revenge, but Eraekryst merely set the boot inside a drawer and closed it. “’S not right. ’S all I aim to say.”
“We should first hear the words of our host on the matter.”
“What? Ask the prince if ‘e ‘ad our mates killed?”
“Not in so blunt and accusing a manner, but aye.”
“Blunt is the only way y’ can ask that question,” Arythan said with a dark smile.
Eraekryst looked at him sharply. “Nor do I want you to ruin this opportunity by having us cast out like some discarded footwear.”
Arythan was incredulous. “Jus’ ‘ow do y’ think ‘e’ll react? Smile an’ invite us to dinner?” He shook his head. “Sorry, mate, but if we ‘ave to go, we ‘ave to go.”
Eraekryst made a face.
Arythan lowered his voice. “An’ I don’ want y’ changing ‘is mind.”
“I have not broken my vow to you.”
“Good.” He saw the Ilangien glance at the door. “So y’ better explore before ‘e returns.”
Eraekryst’s expression brightened. “Do not do anything exciting in my absence,” he said, already halfway through the door.
Arythan scowled and pointed to his leg.
“I consider myself reassured.” The door closed, and not a moment after, the drawers shut simultaneously.
The mage was not unappreciative of the solitude. He had not been alone for quite some time. Now he was alone and in a warm and comfortable bed. He breathed a deep sigh and nestled amongst the blankets and pillows. He found he could ignore his throbbing foot and retreat to the restful world of dreams.
Eraekryst had peeked inside the remaining rooms on the second floor, finding that only one door was locked. These rooms had been like the guest room, complete with bed, chairs, and other furniture to house personal items. He touched nothing save door handles, and he made not a sound as he glided through the halls like a specter.
He descended the stairwell with a certain level of excitement. His brother had the distinction of being the first to set foot inside a Human dwelling, but he would do better. He would be a guest, not an intruder, and he would experience everything this upscale living promised. Then he would have his own stories to tell.
Eraekryst had already seen the great hall, so he continued to the shadowed screen adjacent to the large space. In the buttery he found bottles and barrels; in the pantry, sacks of flour, plates and utensils, spices, and other dry ingredients. He knew little of Human cuisine, what they ate, or how they cooked. He was intrigued, however, by the smells of the neighboring kitchen. He passed several workers on the way, and they paused to stare at the stranger before setting back to their chores. Food was being chopped, baked, boiled, and spitted and cooked. Animal or vegetable—some of which were unidentifiable to him in their pre
sent state—it seemed Humans ate everything in every way possible. He strolled casually around the hot, busy kitchen until he received a glare from the head clerk. Then he strolled casually out again, to his next mysterious destination.
He found a room full of clothes and linens—some clean, some foul-smelling and soiled. Another room was full of books. Still another was crammed with cots and crude beds for the servants. He paid no heed to any stares or whispers around him, and no one felt the need to address him. He did not linger anywhere particularly long, and if a castle attendant allowed it, he would watch over his or her shoulder without a word. When he had thought he had explored every niche and corner, he heard laughter down a hall he had overlooked.
The door was partway open, and so he poked his head inside. The laughter ceased as the gathering of women turned to him in surprise. They were seated in various places—chairs and benches—around the room, and each of them held a piece of fabric and a needle with thread.
“Well, hello,” said the beautiful, blue-eyed, raven-haired woman from the prince’s gathering. He recognized her as Michael’s wife, the Lady Ladonna. “Lord Sparrow, is it not?” she asked.
“Aye, lady,” Eraekryst said, stepping into the room.
“You have returned with the Medoriate. I had heard he was injured during the skirmish with the Warriors of the Sword. How does he fare?” she asked politely.
“I have no doubt he is resting comfortably.”
“I am glad to hear it. Why don’t you join us?”
The other women blushed and murmured amongst each other, but their eyes kept returning to the exceedingly handsome blond stranger in their midst.
He gave a bow and crossed into the room, inspecting Ladonna’s needlework. “Lovely,” he said, watching her needle dip in and out of the fabric. “You are a poet of thread.”
Ladonna’s fair face reddened. “I would not say that, but thank you for the compliment. Please sit, milord. You must be weary.”
“I have no energy for weariness, but I will delight in your company.” He sat down in an empty chair and studied the women in a moment of awkward silence. He was not the only one doing the studying.
