Snow Rose. She wondered how Bechov remembered that name. Maybe it explained why those rascals dared to hurt her. Because a bright, beautiful, soft rose was a harmless creature, right?
The sun fell in the horizon while she was sinking in her gloomy thoughts. The door of the balcony behind her was opened. "We shall get dressed for the meeting," Nestor said curtly.
"I am ready. Are you?" She did not turn her head to look at him.
"In a minute. Are you sure you are attending the meeting in this black dress?"
"I remember you told me I looked pretty in any color." Her voice was colder than ice, eyes fixed on the darkening sky.
"I did. I mean you do look pretty, but this looks like a funeral dress, Hal."
Now, he calls me Hal. He wakes up and forgets he has insulted me. "Yes, it is a funeral dress. We are attending a funeral, aren't we?"
She did not see his face, but she presumed he did not like what she said when she heard the door of the balcony slammed shut behind her. Strangely enough, she did not bother.
A few minutes later he returned, ready this time. Without saying a word, she let him take her hand as they walked together to the small hall. Quarreled or not, the image of the young couple of the royal house should not be harmed under any circumstances, especially in Larovic's presence. She should show him he had not gotten to her. She was even stronger.
Pyotr, the High Counselor of the Rusakian Crown, was in their reception when they stepped into the small hall. "Welcome back, Lord Nestor. Glad to see you join us, Lady Halin." The slender High Counselor greeted them with his fake smile, his cheeks hollow.
"I am sure you are." Halin gave him a crooked smile.
Pyotr's eyes narrowed for a heartbeat. "You look gorgeous tonight, milady." He extended his slim arm toward the table, where King Bechov and his trustworthy marshal were seated. "Please."
Larovic greeted her and Nestor with a stern face. The pleasure is not mine, Lord Marshal. She wanted to spit on him. As for Bechov; from his furrowed brow, she could tell that tonight he would be the usual kingly Bechov, not the fatherly man she had a rare chance to talk to. "I was just telling Lord Larovic and Master Pyotr that from now on, you will be part of this council," Bechov announced.
"That is such an honor, Your Majesty." She feigned a smile. The brief grin on his face betrayed his satisfaction.
"Let's all be seated and start this meeting," the King demanded. "We know what we are going to discuss already."
Pyotr was the one who started, recommending delaying the Rusakian march to Karun until their Mankol allies were ready. Their Bermanian foes would be shattered on two fronts, and thus, fielding a weaker force on each of them. Larovic disagreed, confirming they were not in need for the Mankols' help to capture Karun or to even conquer the whole Bermanian kingdom. And there arose another debate about whether they should stop at Karun or continue their glorious war until Paril itself, the Bermanian Jewel, fell into Rusakian hands. Nestor seconded Larovic—Halin was not surprised though— demanding to start the Rusakian conquest as soon as possible before Masolon might replenish the strength of the Bermanian army already worn by civil war. For the rest of the hour, the debate about the extent of the invasion arose again. Halin kept listening, observing everyone's logic behind his recommendation. Anyway, the final decision of the immediate march to Bermania was already settled, she believed. It seemed that Pyotr was the only one agreeing with the delay.
Until King Bechov surprised her by seconding the High Counselor.
"I have no doubt about the strength of our army," said Bechov. "Yet if we have a chance to save more of our brave soldiers, why don't we take it?" Like his High Counselor, the King of Rusakia wanted to face an enemy weaker than the one he might face if he marched alone. Besides, he wanted to make sure his allies were too busy to stab him in the back. That changed everything. The King had spoken, and no one dared to protest. All Larovic had done was fidgeting in his seat. Nestor pressed his lips together, obviously not content with his father's decision.
"Lady Halin," said Bechov. "It seems it is you who is going to decide tonight's matter."
Halin had thought that tonight she would be only observing to learn. He did that on purpose, she realized. Bechov wanted her to say it, to declare the start of the glorious Rusakian march. His eyes spoke of his anticipation of her next words.
"And what do you expect from the fine lady, Your Majesty?" Larovic frowned, his eyes shooting daggers at her. "Isn't it enough that she and her father released that cannon maker from prison and let him join that wretch ruling Bermania?"
The cannon maker who had killed Larovic's firstborn and favorite son, Halin recalled. Now she could understand why the marshal might hate her.
"Like His Majesty had said before, this world is built on an order that we cannot allow anyone to mess with," she said. "If we let the likes of Masolon rise as a king of one of the Goranian kingdoms, he will be an inspiration to all wretches to take our places one day."
"So?" A grin slipped over Nestor's face. "What is your say?"
She exchanged a quick look with her husband before she turned to Bechov. "We shall not wait for anyone, Your Majesty. If the troops are ready, I say we march at first light."
50. BEN
Ben had lost the count of days.
The King of Bermania had dispatched his army for the South when he had learned that no more cannons would be coming from Paril. And since then, Ben, who had been supposed to join the city guard, had returned to the cursed sparring yard with his royal mentor.
The training seemed to be going forever. Maybe Ben felt so because each practicing day was too long. At dawn, he went to the same abandoned yard next to that rickety building and sparred with Masolon until midnight. And if Masolon was a bit satisfied with his performance, he might grant him a few minutes of rest.
"Are we in a hurry?" Ben panted, lowering his two swords. The day was still in its beginning, his arms too heavy to move though.
"Do you have any clue how much time a soldier spends wielding a sword in real battles?" Masolon pointed his blade at him. "A green soldier would die in the first few minutes. A seasoned one would survive three of our days."
"A few minutes?" Ben chuckled, catching his breath one more time. "Much more than I thought."
"You think I am exaggerating? You do not fight the whole day in a battle as we do in our sparring."
"What about you? How much time have you been fighting? A week?"
Masolon grinned. "You should lift your swords if you want to live."
The cuts in Ben's shoulders, arms, and legs reminded him of Masolon's notion of training. He should take the Demon's threats in a serious way.
Filling his lungs with air, Ben recalled all he had learned in the last four days about fighting two-handedly. "Wielding two swords is more difficult than wielding one," Masolon had told him the first time they had tried that. "You must be able to split your mind into two to be able to think of two different moves at the same moment."
"Think?" Ben had echoed in disapproval.
"You can fight with your muscles like a bull. But you will easily be crushed if you face a bigger one. And whatever you do, you can never be the biggest, but you can be the best."
"Are you the best because you're the strongest or the smartest?"
"Neither. I survived my opponents because my arms were faster than theirs."
"The fastest then. If I want to be the best, my arms should be the fastest."
Masolon had grinned when he had said, "Your mind must be faster than your arms if you want to be the best though."
"Very well. How will you train me to split my mind?"
"I will not before we improve your left-handed blows." Which wasn't an issue. The issue was to learn how to make them in the first place.
But that had become past. Today Ben had a new left hand.
"That is a wrong moment for daydreaming, boy." Masolon charged, swinging one sword after the other, but Ben's timing was accur
ate so far, his blades blocking Masolon's high and low blows at the right moment. He almost lost his balance when he jumped backward as Masolon aimed at his feet, but he managed to keep his feet steady somehow.
"Good for a novice." Masolon curled his lip in disdain. "But a seasoned warrior does not survive battles by evading his opponents'—"
Ben did not let him finish. Roaring, he charged, forcing Masolon to make one step back, yet the Demon did not seem to be suffering. Your feet should be as fast as your arms, Ben recalled Masolon's previous instructions. To find an opening in your opponent's defenses, you must keep him wondering where your next strike will come from. And that was what Ben did, or tried to. Pivoting on his right foot, he turned, making a leap, driving a high blow with one sword and a lateral strike with the other, both blocked by Masolon. The moment Ben landed on the ground, he stabbed. Masolon's sword was there again before Ben's blade reached anywhere. Forcing Ben to lower his weapon, Masolon lunged and shouldered him. Ben fell on his back after he lost one sword, but he did not stay on the ground more than a second. I'm done defending. All those previous days, Ben had been shielding his face, neck, and chest. It was time to stop running away.
Rising up to his feet with a shield he picked up from the ground, Ben met Masolon's sword with a shield swing, following it with a left sword strike. Shields are not just shields. They were weapons as well, Masolon had taught him. Though they were not sharp to cut through flesh, but they could be used to stun your opponents.
Or distract them.
That had better work from the first time, Ben thought. Aiming at Masolon's face, Ben flung his shield. The Demon would dodge it or block it with his two swords; Ben did not wait to watch. Instead he slid, sweeping his sword, Masolon getting his leg away from the blade reach at the last moment.
"Blast!" Masolon grimaced, checking his leg.
Can't be, Ben thought to himself as he pushed to his feet. Could it be possible that he had touched the Demon at last?
"Are you alright?" Ben asked, still holding his weapon.
"Of course not." Masolon did not look upset at all. "You just ruined my favorite breeches."
Ben took a moment to make sure he understood Masolon right. The Demon seemed to be excited by his apprentice's performance, not a single drop of blood seeping from his leg. "My Lord!" Ben took a deep breath. "Alright then. Can we don our armors and use practice swords from now on? I won't be able to live with the blame of killing you."
"Killing me?" Masolon laughed. "Listen, boy. You made a few good moves today, yet you are still too far to even threaten me."
"Stop." Ben wagged a warning finger. "I know what you're doing. I won't respond to your attempts to provoke me."
"But it always works." Masolon chuckled. "You see how fast your mind has become? I do not remember I taught you how to use your shield as a thrown weapon."
"You didn't." Ben sucked in a deep breath. "But I watched you do it once."
"With Gramus in Herlog." Masolon's wide grin betrayed how he enjoyed remembering that moment. "But you did it even better when you threw the shield right at my face. My vision was blocked for a heartbeat."
"Maybe I'm not that bad after all."
"Maybe," Masolon scoffed. "We are done today."
Ben heaved a sigh of relief when Masolon lowered his weapons at last. "I thought I would never hear you say it."
"You need to enjoy your little victory. Let us get out of here."
Hurriedly, Ben picked up his fallen sword before Masolon might change his mind. For one rare instance, Ben would see that rickety building off in sunlight. Today he might have a chance to meet Lynett. He missed her smile.
"So, are you staying here at last?" Masolon asked him as they walked to the palace. The guards patrolling the city kept an eye on their king from a distance.
"I still don't know."
"You do not know?" Masolon asked in disapproval. "You have not told her yet, have you?"
"I was busy sparring with His Grace."
"That is a stupid excuse. I let you see her before we started your training."
"Yes, you did, but. . ."
"You cowered?"
"I wasn't sure of my feelings. But now I am."
Masolon gave him a studying look. "And are you sure about her feelings?"
Ben recalled Lynett's sweet giggle. "I guess I am."
"You guess?" Masolon chortled. "I wonder how your story with the Ramosi girl will end."
Ben wondered as well. Their story had not started in the first place.
"Were you all trained like that in your homeland?" Ben wanted to change the topic.
Masolon laughed as they passed through the palace gate. "We were trained by bandits, and I have to tell you, they were the best trainers we had."
"Yes, I understand. That's how you honed your skills. But how did you learn in the first place? You told me it was your father who. . ." Ben did not finish when he spotted a horde of knights at the courtyard.
"Lord Jonson's retinue," Masolon muttered. "I wonder what brings him today." Like the rest of the King's vassals, the lord of Ramos was supposed to be among the troops besieging Augarin.
"Maybe he's here to bring you the news of victory himself."
"Look at their grim faces." Masolon nodded toward the knights standing by their horses. "What sort of a victory have we achieved?"
Ben did not want to think of other possibilities. Nothing he was waiting for more than the end of this war.
The knights bowed when they saw their king coming. One of them approached Masolon in steady steps and greeted his king.
"Is your lord here?" Masolon asked.
"He is, Your Grace. Shall I inform him of your arrival?"
"He shall join me in the small hall when I am ready," Masolon told the knight before he turned to Ben, holding his shoulder. "You go and finish your story."
Ben was caught off guard. Had he heard His Grace right? "What are you talking about?" Ben found himself asking though he knew the answer.
"You know what I mean."
"Are you sure you don't need me with you?" Ben asked.
"I need nothing. Starting from this moment, you are released from the King's service."
Released? Just like that? "What about my training?"
"The days of sparring are over, warrior." Masolon tightened his grip on Ben's shoulder. "Now you are ready to forge your own path. Do not disappoint me."
Ben's mind was in disarray as he pondered Masolon's last words. Yes, the Demon was seeing him off; Ben could see it in his eyes before Masolon left him and disappeared behind the doors of the palace. He knew the moment of farewell would come one day, but not like that one. Not that abrupt. Not that short. Blast! Should I have told him about his son? The idea occupied his mind. He had not forgotten his oath to Smit, who had warned him from revealing the secret to anybody, and he had been determined to keep his oath. But the notion of not being able to speak to the King of Bermania again made Ben uneasy. That rare chance of getting so close to His Grace might not happen again, especially with the end of this war. Masolon would return to his gorgeous queen in the royal palace of Paril.
"Are you alright, lad?" a knight asked him. Ben realized he had been frozen like a statue in the courtyard.
"I'm fine, sir." Ben managed a smile before he turned on his heel, leaving the palace. That might be the last time he passed through its iron gates.
Don't disappoint me. Ben wondered if Masolon hinted at joining his friend Frankil in Skandivia. Probably Lynett would never agree to make such an unnecessary journey. . . if he dared to reveal his feelings to her in the first place. And more importantly, if she felt the same toward him. She feels the same, he reassured himself. Otherwise, going to her was pointless. But even if she had feelings for him, it would be too soon to discuss their next destination. It would be hard for her to go anywhere with someone she barely knew like him. Maybe after the war.
Ben was so immersed in his thoughts that he had not noticed he had r
eached the well already, only two women there filling their buckets. If Lynett came by her window, she would easily see him. But Ben, too impatient to wait, scurried to the door and knocked, trying to conceal his frustration when her father opened for him instead of her
"Sergeant Colb." Ben harrumphed. "You. . . look good."
"What do you want, boy?" Colb frowned, his voice harsh.
Meeting Colb was not something he was ready for. "I want to have a word with your daughter."
"A word with my daughter?" Colb grimaced. "Why?"
"Well." Ben weighed his next words. He never liked the man, but unfortunately, he had to tolerate his absurdity. "Do you have a problem if I talk to her?"
"Yes, I have. Now go back to your quarters."
Blast! That ended faster than Ben had expected. When had Colb risen from his bed?
"Father! Wait!"
Ben's heart fluttered when Lynett's voice came from inside the house. He could hear her hurried footsteps.
"Lynett." Colb glared at her when she came to the door.
"Let me handle this, father." She was not waiting for her father's permission; she was telling him what she was going to do. "Please?"
Colb exhaled. "Make it quick." Reluctantly, he returned into the house. Handle this? Lynett's words were a bit worrying.
"At last you show up." Folding her arms, she chided him with her sweet brown eyes.
"I've been sparring with His Grace since the last time we met," said Ben. "I never finished before nightfall."
"Anyway." She shrugged. "Why are you here?"
Ben did not like her impassiveness. There was something awkward in her eyes. "I missed you."
"You mean you missed chattering with me?"
"No, Lynett. It's you. I missed you," Ben insisted. "All those days I wasn't feeling well, and I thought it might be the exhaustion. But now I know it was always you."
"I can't believe you say that now." She shook her head, chuckling nervously.
"You must believe it, Lynett." He leaned forward. "I love you." Here I say it at last. "I love chattering with you as well." He grinned. Studying her facial expressions, he waited for her lips to make a hint of a smile, but the firm line they formed did not change. Not quite the reaction he had hoped for.
Throne of Ruins Page 35