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| wChapter 13: In which some things are explained... sort of: Wednesday, November 30, 2005 | |
Chapter 13 The king was sweating, great round droplets of sweat rolling down the high curved forehead and the flabby lines of his cheeks. “Affection?” He laughed, shortly, raggedly--an ugly little sound. “From you, Wronsteit?” “It takes considerable time and effort to train an apprentice, Your Majesty,” Wronsteit explained in his warm, low voice. “I would hate to waste what I put into this one.” The king was still panting heavily, but he stood with the blade lowered and held only in one hand. He looked at it; the edge, not dulled by any of the contact it had made, gleamed again in the room’s warm light. There was a nick part of the way up the blade from when it had broken Nevaya’s own sword. Nevaya did not know what to think. Wronsteit had given him that sword the day after they had signed the official apprentice and master contract. He had never trained with anything so suited to his build and speed. But a sword was just a sword. A swordsmaster put his heart and soul into his blade only if he forged his own, and then if it broke he himself could repair it. A gift blade was only that--a gift. Somehow he knew that it was not supposed to hold enough value for him to cry over it, but he did indeed feel like crying. What had happened to all the years and hours he had spent holding it? They were gone, shattered like dust on a bare floor in an empty house. He swallowed hard. The king looked at him. “I broke your sword, boy,” he said, and there was still a dangerous edge to his voice. “How do you feel about that?” “It is only a sword, Your Majesty,” he said, feeling curiously detached again. The king laughed, and then he lifted the sword and laid the hilt across his palm, offering it to Nevaya. “Then take this one,” he said. “I no longer have any use for it.” Nevaya carefully reached out and accepted the blade. It felt strange to take it from the king’s hands; he did not feel as if he could be Wronsteit’s apprentice with a blade from the king. But he could not disregard the gift nor the gesture; to do so would be an insult. So he took the blade, and he got to his feet and bowed to the king, muttering a low tone of gratitude. “So Your Majesty has seen enough?” said Wronsteit. “Indeed I have; if the emblem on the blade itself did not tell me in the first place, the quality sufficient enough to cut through another blade did. This smith is the one I seek.” Again the king seemed to have forgotten Nevaya. “You must go to him and request a very special blade.” As he outlined the specifics, he absently handed Nevaya the sheath. The young man put the sword away and tied it onto his belt. Then he went over to where his old sword lay in pieces on the floor and he gathered those pieces and put them back into the sheath. The blade appeared whole but he knew that it was not and that thought disturbed him somewhat. Nevaya turned his attention back to the conversation between the two men. At last the king sighed. “Very well,” he said. “You have your instructions.” “I do, Your Majesty,” said Wronsteit. “Then see that it is done, in your usual efficient and methodical manner.” The king smiled. “You may go.” Wronsteit bowed, and Nevaya copied him; then the two turned and strode from the room. They were escorted back down the hallways and maze like corridors until they emerged again from a nondescript door in a nondescript wall of what Nevaya was sure was the palace. They were hurried into the carriage and then they drove away. Nevaya desperately wanted to speak to Wronsteit about what he had seen in the king, but he knew it was not safe to do so with the uniformed guard in the carriage; nor probably throughout the rest of the city. They rode the rest of the way in silence, and the carriage stopped to drop them off a fair city’s distance from the inn. As they walked, Wronsteit sloshed through the iced over mud puddles without care. Snow had begun to fall again and Nevaya shivered underneath his new robe. They did not go to the inn immediately, but made their way through the streets to the marketplace, where Wronsteit took the time to haggle over a variety of items that Nevaya was aware that they needed. As they lost themselves in the hubbub of crowd that made up the market even on snowy days, he grabbed Nevaya’s shoulder and said quickly in his ear, “Are you all right?” Nevaya lifted an eyebrow at him. “I think so. But... my sword...” He was aware that his lower lip trembled slightly and he scowled against the action. Wronsteit sighed, and the hand tightened on his shoulder. “I am sorry for that... more sorry than you could know, perhaps. But there was no way for you to refuse that fight, nor the sword that he offered.” Nevaya nodded, somewhat unhappily. “Master, I don’t... I don’t understand,” he said. “Why is he--“ “Not here.” The grip on his shoulder tightened again. “When we are out of the city, we might be able to--ach.” He sighed. “Yes, not here.” “Are we being watched?” Nevaya did not look around, but stepped forward and pointed to some foodstuff. Wronsteit also stepped forward, examining it, and then pointed to the price and scowled. “Followed,” he said quietly, and then began to haggle with the shopkeeper over the price. Nevaya did not ask him how he knew. He waited for a long moment as Wronsteit haggled and babbled, and then he acted as if he were bored and began to peruse the wares at first this stall, and then the next. He subtly examined his surroundings at the same time, and after a hard moment or two he saw a figure that he seemed to remember from before they had entered the market. “Nevaya,” Wronsteit called; the young man obediently turned back to his master’s side and added the foodstuff to the collection of things he already carried, and they moved back into the crowd and on to the next shop they needed. “We could lose them,” Nevaya hissed at Wronsteit as they were swept along by the crush of people. Wronsteit shook his head. “Better to be followed by those we know are there, than by those we do not. I know what these men look like now, as do you. We can avoid mishap by making sure there are no other watchers. Although with him, I do not know...” They stopped at the closest shop and continued to buy the supplies they needed. Nevaya was able to subtly determine that they were indeed being followed by the man he had recognized, and two others. They were not as careful as perhaps they should be, but then, it was a crowded marketplace, and Nevaya knew that if he wanted to he could lose them. But Wronsteit had said no, and therefore he did not. They finished their shopping excursion and made their way on foot back to the inn, where they spent an uncomfortable night with one of them always on guard. The next day Wronsteit shook Nevaya awake well before dawn. The young man silently dressed in his toga but he wore the loose trousers and the robe--it would be cold out. Then he packed his bag, placing the broken sword and the new tunic inside, and gathered the rest of the things into two or three saddle bags. He followed Wronsteit out to the courtyard, where the swordsmaster kicked against the stable doors, rousing a sleeping stable boy who hurried to bring out just one horse. “Another horse, sir?” the boy bumbled in surprise when Wronsteit demanded it of him. “Yes, lad,” Wronsteit said in the low grating tone he used when he was irritable--which was often, in the mornings. “A horse for my journeyman. You don’t expect him to walk, do you? And he certainly won’t fit on my horse.” He gestured at Nevaya. The word slowly permeated through the various levels of fog and sleep that were clinging to Nevaya’s mind and dissipated them as if the sun had risen and dissipated the frost that formed on the grass overnight. There came a clatter from around him, and he realized belatedly that he had dropped the bags and was staring at Wronsteit with gaped mouth and widened eyes. “Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” the befuddled stable boy muttered, and disappeared back into the stable. “Master Wronsteit...” said Nevaya. “What?” snapped Wronsteit, turning to look at the young man, and then seeing the expression on Nevaya’s face, that smile of pleasure flitted across his own lips, and he leaned back and laughed, the sound ringing loudly in the courtyard. It was a true, healthy laugh, and Nevaya found the sound almost as amazing as the sound of his own new title--he had never heard Wronsteit laugh so before. “Well, we have been successful, journeyman,” Wronsteit said at last as the stable boy finally reappeared with Nevaya’s horse and began to attach the various bags to the saddle. “We have accomplished something, and we have begun to move on to the next stage of this mission.” A shadow passed over his face and the joy faded back into his normal mask as the two of them swung up onto their horses. He flipped a small coin to the stable boy and then the two of them rode from the courtyard and out into the streets, the horses’ hooves sounding loudly, like bells, on the cobblestone road. “Yes,” he said in a low tone. “Yes, we have things to do.” Then he glanced at Nevaya, who was still in the stages of a fair shock. “You seemed to have taken your instructions to heart at last, Nevaya,” he said as they rode. “No matter what he did to provoke you, you did not react. Why is that?” “I do not know, Master,” Nevaya said. “I felt... cold, I think. As if every word he said was unimportant. And some of them made me want to stir and feel angry, but there was no need.” Wronsteit grunted. “Indeed. You turned off your anger, and very well done too. He was looking to make you mad.” “But... why?” Wronsteit shook his head. “I do not know, Nevaya, but I... I think that he wanted to kill you.” Nevaya shivered despite the robe and the toga. “I did get the same feeling, Master,” he said with a short, humorless laugh. “Especially once I lost my sword.” He felt his heart pull at him strangely. “Indeed. And if you will pardon me for stepping in the middle of your fight--“ “Master!” Wronsteit looked at him carefully. “It is not good form to interrupt anyone’s fight unless that aid is asked for, before or during the battle. I can admit that I was in the wrong. But...” he shook his head. “No, I would not stand to see you killed by him.” They passed into the frozen mud roads of the outer city and from there out into the snow-dusted fields on the outskirts of town. The road led away, south; they followed it, both lost in thought for a long, long time. Xxxxxxxx In her small home in the town where Madrul had picked up his supplies, Rythcaren blew out the last lamp in the pottery shop where she worked. For a moment she hovered in the doorway, examining the darkened room. When she had returned to her family on the island, she had been grateful to fit back into her old routine, working with her mother to craft the same pots she had seen the woman make when she was a child. When her mother had died her father had given the majority of the care of the shop over to her; he had loved her mother dearly, but he still worked in the shop, making some of the pots and managing sales whenever he was needed. She had been glad for the distraction; after Iakena had grown up enough that she no longer needed constant care, it was harder to forget the days she had left behind. Today was one of those days when even hard work could hardly take her mind off of things. Why had she given it all up? Forget the riches... her life, the sheer softness of it. She had dwelt in layers of furs and skins, woven cloth of the finest thread. There had been moments of bitterly cold wind to be sure--she could never really seem to escape the wind. But when she was buried in the depths of the palace, surrounded by soft fire lights and torches and the company of other young women her age who were there when she wanted anything--all she had to do was speak a word, and it would be done--it was easy to ignore the knowledge of the bristling fierce cold outside. And then he would come, late or early, it did not really matter what time of day. He would stroke her hair and whisper sweet nothings into her ear, feed her tidbits of dried fruit... But she had missed the fresh fruit of her homeland. On the mainland they had nothing but that which could be shipped, and in the North, only that which could be shipped long distances. Dried fish, goat, and lamb were some of the main staples of trade that went North; but the flowers that proliferated from the vines only a mile from her house here withered and died in the frozen lands of the North. She had been in the marketplace. Not the one in the city here, where her family had grown up; no, she had insisted on going to sell the pots at the closest mainland port, Corthisis. And when her brother had told her to go off and have herself a fun time amongst the marketplace, she had gone. She could still remember looking over her shoulder as she disappeared into the crowd, one hand over the purse that was tucked beneath her deep red toga. Red brought out the lustrous tones of her hair and the golden glow of her skin; she loved wearing red, and that day she had worn the toga and a flower in her hair to match, that one of the venders gave to her with a smile as she passed. She went through the marketplace, avoiding the crush of the people, and took the time to buy an orange fruit and peel it, devouring one sweet segment at a time as she continued wandering. A trained macaw in a cage at one of the shopkeepers chirruped and sang and she whistled back at it. It had been a pleasant and sunny day and she went down to the dock to watch the waves move over the distant edges of the natural, sandy bay. Fish jumped in the harbor alongside the great ships coming in. And in all this, she had thought herself bored. Rythcaren turned away from the shop and made her way towards her home next door, still remembering, still dreaming. He had found her there by the beach. She had remembered speaking without looking to someone who stood next to her; then one moment she had turned and found him not an islander, as she had expected, but a mainlander with long golden hair, dressed in the robes and loose leggings that those men of the North seemed to prefer. She had been surprised, but she had not run away. There was no reason to fear him then. She remembered all the words he had said--they had seemed so pleasant and so brilliant, and he had seemed so strange to her--strange, yet appealing. By the time the sun had set he had agreed to walk her back to the stall where her brother had been packing up the pots that had not yet sold. He had bid her farewell and then disappeared, followed by the two or three shadowy men who had always been behind him--Northerners, like he was, but nondescript. They did not have his powerful body lined with muscles. She smiled, and opened the door to Iakena’s bedroom. The girl lay on her bed, sound asleep under the moonlight from an open window. Rythcaren sat down on the edge of the bed and gently ran her hands through the girl’s golden hair. It was so brilliant and so beautiful. She sighed deeply to herself after a long while. It had been some years now since she had left him; fled from him, fearing for the safety of her child. Was it worth it? Again she touched Iakena’s hair, and then she got to her feet and moved to her own cold bed in her own small bedroom. No golden lights or furs awaited her; only roughly woven cloth, and a bed low to the ground and lonely. She curled up under the covers and fell asleep shivering. She dreamed. Golden fire lights flickered around her. It was warm, even though outside she knew the sharp, heavy taste of ice laden wind was blowing snowy pellets into the building’s walls. She stretched luxuriously, her limbs caressing the warm pile of bear pelts and furred pillows beneath her. An outstretched hand would easily encounter a comb for her hair, or a bowl of dried grapes. Someone sat down next to her. She turned, and his strong arms closed around her, embracing her. They moved, rhythmically, together and silent. “I don’t understand.” Her lips moved to form the words but she was not quite sure if it was her own voice that spoke. “I...” His voice sounded wretched. “I am sorry,” he said. “There is nothing that can be done.” She reached out a hand to touch his golden hair. “But... you and I...” “That can never be, you know that, Rythcaren.” He turned away from her in frustration. She shook her head, feeling the tears in the corners of her eyes and hating them. “And yet here you said you loved me.” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I cannot love you, Rythcaren,” he whispered through his palms. “It is not allowed.” “Nothing but racism and prejudice disallows it.” He shook his head again, and then suddenly the fires flickered in a gust of wind and faded away, leaving only darkness in the room. It began to grow cold, and a pale light fell over them both, as if moonlight reached into the deep room. He turned, and in his hand something like a knife glittered. And in her sleep she mouthed the words he had said to her, remembering and dreaming simultaneously. “Rythcaren, if you gave birth to a child, it would be a threat to my family and a threat to my future. I could not allow that.” The pallid moonlight struck through her, and she screamed silently, alone in an ever darkening spiral of night that swept up to consume and devour her utterly. The wind from outside the warm room broke over her like the waves of the sea, rising and falling, stealing what little heat her body had, until she was spent. She lay on the ground, shivering and bleeding, the dark blood spreading out atop a snowy hill, slowly running down like the darkest, inkiest rivers of night ran across the land. The snow made the earth gleam almost unbearably under the light of the moon, and the blood kept flowing, and kept flowing. Rythcaren awoke suddenly, her hand at her throat. She lay in bed gasping for a long time, and then she stumbled to her feet, wrapping the blanket around her own shivering shoulders, and hurried to Iakena’s bedroom. For a long moment she stood in the doorway watching the girl slumber. Then at last she leaned against the wall and slumped to the floor, covered her face in her hands, and wept.
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