“I will – if you wish it.”
“Only two arrows? I will gladly give you three – or four. I often use that many and get nothing.”
Brenyn shook his head. “Two, and you can keep this deer. And two for every deer I kill for you afterward.”
Graig stood and carefully approached Brenyn, holding out his hand. “Shake on it?”
Brenyn shook the hand and then indicated the quiver.
“Two arrows,” he said.
3.
The friendship between Brenyn and Graig developed very slowly, based as it was upon an initial angry confrontation. Still, over time, it became a friendship indeed. Brenyn slew several deer that fall and shared them with Graig, who paid Brenyn with arrows of high quality, and was proud to bear the carcasses home for his father’s inspection, and to claim a hunter’s success.
Winter came again, and, though of long duration, was rather mild. Snow fell twice but lasted only a few days upon the ground each time. Spring came late in that fourteenth year of Brenyn’s life. After sowing the garden and the small field of wheat, Brenyn, one morning, as had become his wont, took his cane pole down from the wall and made his way to the banks of Small River.
The trout that inhabited that stream were one of his Gran’s favorite delicacies, and he was anxious to give her the first taste of the spring run. When he worked his way down over the hillside and arrived at the banks of the river, he found that, because of the dearth of snow that winter, the stream was already running slow and shallow, exposing the few deep holes where the trout tended to congregate.
The road that separated his Gran’s farm from the hillside that sloped down to the river ran to the north here before angling eastward and crossing a wood-and-stone bridge over Small River. His Gran’s farm was the last of the private holdings until the edge of the town of Pierum, perhaps two miles off. Between that farm and the town, everything was owned by the family that dwelled in the castle, which, at this moment, consisted of Prince Cole and his daughter, Emilene. So, once he had crossed the road, Brenyn was fishing upon royal lands.
And trespassing upon castle lands was a serious crime.
Here, though, in the hollow south of the bridge, there were thick woods upon both sides of the river and the banks were steep and rocky. Few, if any, people came here. Discovery was unlikely.
He caught three nice fish in the holes across the road from the farm and then began to work his way upstream through the tangle of brush as a long-held desire surfaced. There was a deep hole immediately below the bridge that he had looked upon every time he and Gran crossed that bridge on their way into town.
He had wanted to fish that hole since he had first looked down over the railings of the bridge and seen it. Anywhere along those banks near the bridge, however, he could be easily spied by anyone crossing the bridge. With the current running so low now, however, he thought that if he could stand beneath the bridge, out of the sight of any eyes above him; then, hidden, he might let his line run down into that hole and discover what sort of fish would rise. He was certain that a lunker dwelled there, down in those deep, blue-green, slow-moving waters.
Hearing no activity upon the road, Brenyn decided that the time had come to cast a line into that hole by the bridge. Working his way up along the near bank, struggling through the willows, spicebushes, and vine maples, he came to the bottom edge of the long pool.
On the far side of the river, the pool was verged by a gravel bar for perhaps half its length immediately below the bridge, but if Brenyn fished from that bar, he would be easily seen by anyone crossing the bridge. Upon the near bank, there was nothing but brush and rocks lining the pool of deep water.
He looked toward the upper end of the pool, to where the stream rushed out from under the bridge.
There, on the near side of the river, the footers of the bridge were seated in mounds of rock, and much of this mounded rock extended back under the bridge, disappearing into the shadows. If Brenyn could stand on that pile of rock while he fished, he would be hidden under the roadway of the bridge itself.
He crouched in the brush, hidden, while he listened for any activity upon the road, either above him near his Gran’s farm, or to the east, toward town. There was only silence. He left his hiding spot and hastened up along the bank, scrambling over rocks and struggling through brush until he reached the base of the bridge.
He found a flat-topped stone near the base of the mounded rocks and stepped onto it, slipping into the shadows of the bridge overhead and out of sight of the roadway. Then he uncoiled his line, baited the hook, and cast it into the current where it flowed out from the gloom and into the deeper water.
He made this cast three times, coiling in his line, and then casting it into the stream again to let the bait drift down and into the depths. On the third cast, just as the gentle tug of the drift had taken most of his line, the line went taut and the pole bent in his hands, the cane creaking and straining.
A few minutes later and he had pulled a fat trout out of the deeps of the pool, a true lunker. After admiring the fish, he dropped it in his creel and cast the line again. He fished for another hour while the sun climbed up in the east, catching two more nice fish, though neither was as large or fat as the first.
He was about to call it a day when hooves sounded on the roadway overhead, coming from the direction of town. Brenyn shrank back into the shadows and waited for the travelers – for there were the sounds of the hooves of more than just one horse – to pass along the road.
But they did not pass.
Instead, the horses stopped upon the bridge right above him. Brenyn’s heart caught. Had he been seen? – fishing in waters reserved only for the residents of the castle? The spires of that residence could just be seen rising above the hills beyond the open fields upon the north side of the bridge.
Had someone looking out from one of those turrets spied him across such a distance?
He waited, standing in the gloom with his back against the pylons of the bridge, gazing out into the sunlight, hoping that those that rode the horses had simply stopped for a moment to admire the view. But minutes passed and they did not move on.
No one called out to him, however, nor did anyone descend to the gravel bar that edged the far side of the long pool.
After some time, there came the sound of a quiet voice, soft, sedate, feminine. “I want to go down and put my feet in the water,” the voice stated.
“As you wish, Your Highness,” a second, deeper, masculine voice replied. “Do you need that I come with you?”
“I do not, captain,” the feminine voice said.
“I’ll have a pipe, then,” the second voice answered.
With a start, Brenyn realized that he recognized that second voice. It was the voice of Captain Grizeo. And the female that was with him – apparently, the princess herself – was coming down to the level of the water, to “put her feet in.”
Despite the gloom under the bridge, if she looked that way, Brenyn would be seen. He slunk further into the shadows, moving stealthily toward the center of the span, watching out to the south, where the gravel bar edged the stream.
There, he waited, breathing slow and shallow, with his ears and eyes bent upon the gravel bar.
Then; “What are you doing there, boy?” The soft, feminine voice demanded.
The voice came from the other way, upstream, echoing in the shadows under the bridge. Startled, Brenyn spun and looked toward the north side of the bridge. Standing in the shallow water below the sunlit grassy shore on the north side, where the open pasture sloped up and away from the river, and just inside the influence of the shadows of the bridge overhead, was a young, slim girl, wearing a dress, her feet and ankles in the water.
She was small, shorter than Brenyn, obviously younger, and very slender, like the willows growing along the bank. The features of her face were melded with the deep shadows cast by the bridge overhead but much of her hair was yet in the sunshine, catching the influence
of that brilliant light. That hair was coppery and gilded by the sun; the strands gleamed like burnished gold.
“What do you do there?” She asked once more.
“I-I’m fishing,” Brenyn replied.
“Indeed. Have you caught many fish?”
Brenyn gulped and nodded. “A few.”
She stepped deeper into the shadows and held out her hand. “May I see them?”
Brenyn swallowed and nodded. “Of course.”
She made to move toward him then, across the stream, but Brenyn knew that, though the water was not overly deep beneath the bridge, perhaps coming only to her waist, it was nonetheless running swift and could easily sweep her off her feet, perhaps even washing her into the deep pool below.
He held up his hand. “Wait. I will come to you. The water runs strong and fast here,” he told her.
She stopped, watching him for a moment, and then nodded.
“Thank you,” she said. “You are very kind.”
Brenyn moved to the north side of the mounded rocks and stepped into the current, easing his way across to her, through the deeper water and then into the shallows where she waited. When he came close, he halted and opened his creel.
She looked down into the creel, a small basket made from woven straw, and examined Brenyn’s catch.
When she looked at the fish, Brenyn looked at her. While he gazed at her small face, and her large eyes of deepest, darkest blue, like that of the water off to his right, her small nose and pink lips, something happened inside him that was utterly new.
It felt like something stirred inside his chest, or perhaps in his stomach, as if small flying creatures, birds, maybe, or butterflies had abruptly taken up residence and were, at the moment, highly agitated and extremely active.
She looked up at him then, catching him staring at her, but she seemed to take no offense.
She smiled. “Those are nice fish.”
“Y-yes,” he agreed.
“What is your name?” She asked.
“I am named Brenyn.”
She dropped her hands to her skirt and made a slight curtsy. “My name is Emilene.”
Brenyn stared. “You’re – you’re the princess,” he blurted. He felt his eyes go wide. “You live in the castle.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “I do.”
Abruptly, he held out the creel. “These are yours, then, for I caught them here by your bridge.”
She laughed and shook her head. “It is not my bridge, nor is it my father’s. It belongs to all the people.”
“But this is your stream.”
She turned her head and looked toward the north. “It flows across my father’s lands,” she agreed, “but it does not arise in them. It comes from the mountains.” She looked back. “Therefore, this river belongs to the people as well. So, you see, Brenyn – they are your fish, after all.”
He still held the creel out toward her. “Then I will give them to you,” he offered.
She pushed the creel away. “No, thank you.” Then she tilted her head thoughtfully. “But you might catch me some next time.”
Brenyn’s heart jumped.
Next time?
He nodded and found his voice. “I will,” he promised.
Just then, on the north side of the bridge a large shadowy form hove into view.
“With whom do you speak, Your Highness?” Captain Grizeo wondered, and then he spied Brenyn. “Hello, Brenyn, my lad; what do you do here – a bit of fishing?”
Brenyn nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Grizeo glanced at Emilene. “You know that these are royal waters, don’t you, lad?”
Brenyn nodded guiltily, but Emilene lifted her chin.
“I have given him permission to fish here, captain,” she told him.
Grizeo grinned and nodded. “Alright by me, my lady.”
He glanced again at Brenyn and then stepped back. “If all is well here, Your Highness; I will go back up top and finish my pipe.”
She nodded. “Go, captain. All is well here.”
She smiled at Brenyn and then turned and looked upstream, where the grassy banks rose above the river. “It’s very cool here in the shade,” she said, turning back to Brenyn. “Shall we go and sit in the sun, or must you get home?”
Brenyn swallowed and nodded. “I would like to sit in the sun,” he admitted.
He followed her along the verge of the stream and then they climbed free of the water and went up and sat on the grass next to a large patch of blackberry brush.
She looked over. “Where do you live?”
He pointed. “My Gran’s farm is just there – see the thatched roof? That’s our barn.”
“You’re a farmer?”
He shook his head emphatically. “A hunter,” he said.
She thought about that while her sapphire eyes darkened. She shook her head. “I don’t like it when things die,” she said. “For I have seen enough of death to last me my life.”
Though it was not spoken as an indictment of his professed occupation, his heart caught in his chest, nonetheless. Quickly, he shook his head. “I don’t like to kill, either,” he assured her. “But we have no other way to acquire meat and leather.”
She turned her solemn gaze upon him.
“I did not mean to offend you, Brenyn,” she said. “I just don’t like death, is all. It leaves pain behind it.”
He realized then that she likely spoke of her mother, who had passed a few years earlier.
“I am sorry, princess,” he said.
The princess shook her head. “There is no cause for you to apologize.” She smiled at him and reached out and placed her hand upon his arm, but then stiffened, as if she had received a shock, and withdrew it immediately, gazing at him with widened eyes.
He stared back in alarm. “What is the matter?”
She continued to examine Brenyn for a long moment, her dark blue eyes wide. “Your flesh,” she said. “It makes me tingle.”
“Tingle?”
She nodded slowly. “As if there is heat within you, or some sort of power.”
Confused, he glanced up at the sky. “It’s only the sun on my skin,” he suggested.
“No.” She shook her head and placed her hand again upon his arm. And this time, though she flinched at the contact, she kept it there. He did not dare tell her in that moment, but the touch of her fingers made his flesh tingle as well.
She frowned at him. “There is something in you, Brenyn; I can feel it – a sort of… strength.”
He shook his head in confusion. “I know not what it might be – or what it is that you feel,” he contended.
She closed her eyes and sat still and quiet for a time with her hand yet upon his arm. Then she lifted her hand, opened her eyes, and looked away, down across the stream. “I heard it told once that there is such a thing as the ‘thrill of destiny’,” she said. She turned and looked at him. “Maybe that is what it is. Maybe there is a great destiny that awaits you, Brenyn.”
He looked around at the sunlit field, the sparkling stream, and the deep, dark woodlands across the way, all of it a panorama of peacefulness. Then he looked back. “In Vicundium?”
She laughed. “Who knows? – maybe a dragon will come and threaten us all, and you will be the dragon slayer that saves us.”
He studied her pretty face for a moment. “I would protect you, princess,” he stated solemnly.
At that, she frowned. “Must you address me thus? Would it not be better for you to speak my name?”
He frowned back. “But is that not improper?”
She shrugged. “In town, certainly – but here, where there is no one nearby? You may speak my name.”
He nodded. “Alright, Emilene.”
That made her frown once more. “It sounds so formal when you say it,” she told him, “as if we could not be friends.”
Once again, Brenyn felt a thrill.
Friends?
He swallowed at the knot in his throat and glanced aw
ay for a moment. Then he looked back. “What about Emi? Could I name you thus – or is it too familiar?”
She considered that for a moment and then smiled at him. “Yes,” she replied, and she glanced about the pleasant countryside. “Here,” she said, “I will be Emi.”
Just then, Captain Grizeo came striding through the field. He inclined his head to Emi as he came up. “We should return to the castle, Your Highness,” he told her. “Your father will wish you to share the midday repast.”
Emi nodded and stood. “Alright, captain.” She held out her hand to Brenyn, palm downward, with her fingers curled slightly.
Uncertain of what she expected, he took the hand and shook it, causing her to laugh and Captain Grizeo to chuckle. “No, lad,” the captain said. “You must kiss the lady’s hand.”
Flushed, reddened with embarrassment, Brenyn bowed his head and put his lips on her hand. Then he looked up. “You said that I could catch some fish for you… next time?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I will bring a basket.”
“When?” He wondered.
“In a few days,” she answered, “a week, perhaps. I will come when I can.”
She rubbed at the back of the hand that he had kissed while she studied him with her dark eyes narrowed and serious. “I can yet feel it,” she said.
“I am sorry,” he apologized.
She shook her head. “Never regret this thing in you, Brenyn, for it is the thrill of destiny,” she said. “What else would it be?”
He ignored that. “I will watch for your return,” he said.
She nodded. “Good day, Brenyn.”
“Good day… Emi.”
She turned away, followed by Captain Grizeo, who looked back and gave Brenyn a wink as he strode away.
Brenyn watched them mount up – Grizeo on his black horse, and Emi upon a light brown, almost golden horse – and ride away, disappearing toward town where the road entered the forest.
4.
That evening, while they partook of the trout, fried crisp and golden-brown, Mirae studied her grandson. “Your thoughts are far away, Brennie. Where might they be this night?”
A Plague of Ruin: Book One: Son of Two Bloods Page 3
