by J P Corwyn
Thinking about it made Kaith sick. It made him feel useless. He had fought, had even commanded, and still better men than he had fallen. He knew there was nothing he could have done for them, but he replayed the battle over and over again. He could think of little else. Whether awake or asleep; every note of that Red Symphony haunted him, though none more so than the loss of Robis.
Ylspeth rode up beside him along his left. She looked exhausted. He wondered, idly, if she’d slept at all.
“You were wrong, your Excellency.” He said as she approached within earshot.
“Was I?” Ylspeth asked. Her voice suggested no surprise, nor did it give any hint that she might be affronted by his less than cordial greeting.
"We've set a breakneck pace for Ashacre, sleeping in shifts on the backs of carts or riding double: in the arms of other people mounted in military saddles." Kaith's voice sounded haggard, but he wasn't slurring his speech. He was bone-tired, but his mind was working, right enough. "Everything that attacked us was either beheaded or burned, so there's no chance that anything stood back up and started to follow."
Ylspeth nodded, offering no argument or debate.
“Despite all of that; we have absolutely no idea what set that curse upon us, or initially made the dead forget to lie still.” He paused, meeting her eyes, then looking away again toward the horizon. “So yes; you were wrong.”
Ylspeth considered him in silence for a long moment, then nodded tentatively. Her face bore a look of bitter resignation. Nodding again, (more firmly this time) she finally spoke.
“You’re right, Sir Kaith.” Her voice sounded hollow somehow. After a brief span during which her mind’s eye replayed her encounter with Lanian, she added, “It most certainly is not over.”
EPILOGUE
ONE
The Manor house at Ashacre was, by comparison to the accommodations at Westsong, small and rather mean. The house itself had only one room with stone walls. Fortunately, that room was the Master's bedchamber.
The rest of the building was made up of somewhat haphazard-looking editions of warped wooden wattles inconsistently (and inexpertly) sealed with random applications of daub. The result was a building that the wind and weather could sink their fangs into with relative ease.
The village was officially owned by the county, itself. It was the sort of place that would likely be given to one of her knights upon his ascension to that lofty station, presuming they were not to be relegated to the status of Bachelor knight.
As she sat upon the featherbed in the modest stone chamber; Ylspeth realized she had to start considering what to do with her newly minted knights.
She had deliberately not declared The Nineteen to be elevated to the landed gentry, although that had been her ultimate intent for those who survived. A knight needed a manner if he was to maintain himself in a combat-ready state, after all.
The income from such a settlement paid not only for that knights daily bread, but for his household, his armsmen, and the maintenance of horses and gear of war so that he could be called upon to serve at a moment’s notice. It also fell to the knights to maintain order within and upon the lands over which he was given dominion.
She could hold to the letter of her word and grant the remaining fourteen their spurs as Bachelors, she supposed. That would mean that the responsibility for their upkeep would fall to the sweat of their own brows, or the commissions the Thorion throne granted to them.
She toyed with this thought for a few idle moments, but she knew it wouldn’t serve her purposes, nor would it be in keeping with her original intent. She needed them to remain loyal to her. Granting them title without the ability to sustain themselves would do little to engender their loyalty.
She turned her mind to the housekeeping aspects of what had come to pass. Eastshadow would need a new master, and she would need to summon the heir of Wick: Sir Reginald’s eldest, and now only son, Ricgerd. The man was a lout, but as near as she could tell he was quite loyal to the County Throne. He had his father’s good nature, and his prowess with a blade, but wasn’t possessed of many social graces.
It’s as if Sirs Reginald and Anden had a child together. She laughed. The image was so absurd as she pictured the two men in various sexual positions that she couldn’t help herself.
All too soon, however, the laughter had given way to sobs. Seeing Anden’s face on the stage of her mind immediately brought thoughts of Valad. The tumble of memory and misery came on so suddenly, and with such ferocity that her extraordinary self-possession winked out like a candle flame before a strong wind.
She drew her knees up to her chest: pressing her back against the cool stone wall. For a long moment, all she could do was try to weather the aching wave that rolled over her.
“Ylspeth…”
She closed her eyes more tightly as if the act would banish the voice.
“Ylspeth, come now. Look at me.”
Shuddering, pinned between hope and terror, she lifted her face and opened her eyes. Through the wet prism of her tears, she saw him.
It wasn't Valad as he'd been days ago, however. No. This was Valad as he had been half a century up the hourglass. He'd been her companion, confidant, student, and teacher, then. That'd been a time before stone walls and wrought iron when summer dozed all around them …When the world was full of river-song and sun-dappled glens, and ascension to the Throne was a lone gray storm-cloud against the otherwise endless blue.
He was once again young and beautiful, wearing what she had chidingly referred to as his Summer Costume: naked to the waist, every muscle on display, his brown waves longer, softer, begging her fingers to slide through them as she’d always longed to.
“Why did you leave me?” Her voice was a ragged whisper. She hadn’t meant to speak – hadn’t meant to acknowledge this phantom’s presence, but she found that she couldn’t keep silent. The words had passed her lips before she’d had time to stop herself.
“I would never leave you. Surely you know that…”
His tone was as she remembered it: summer thunder mixed with pine song.
“And to Anden?” It was as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “You could’ve bested that lout with a dagger between your teethand both hands behind your back for good measure!” She kept her voice low so as not to unintentionally call Greggor or Valgar from the next room, but she was both angry and hurt.
“Any man can fall in battle. You know that.” He paused for a moment as if considering, then continued; “And treachery and dishonor our deadlier weapons than any made of metal and wood.”
She rose in anger, a white, burning emptiness that wanted to devour everything - anything in its path to fill that void.
“How dare you!" She crossed the three feet that stood between them in a single stride, balled up her fist, and struck him in the chest with it. Over, and over again she struck him. She felt the flesh and the taught muscle beneath clench in flecks to absorb the blows as they came in, but otherwise, her assault was proving useless and ineffectual.
At length, elbows bent, forearms and balled fists pressed against his chest, she bowed her head. She pressed her brow to the warmth of his skin and remained there: a study in silent misery and mute acceptance.
“Better?”
She nodded, the tracks of her tears almost invisible in the bitter, salt and silver moonlight that fell through the rooms hi and only window.
“I’m glad.” Said he.
For a span that may have lasted seconds or centuries; they simply stood. She could feel the moment rushing toward them and silently pleaded with herself to turn aside from it. Ignorance is the sweetest wine that ever was, after all, though it's rarely appreciated until it's been stripped away. She felt the end enfold her like frostbite: frigid until the last when all is warmth and soft acceptance.
“Command me, Ylspeth. Tell me how I can serve you best.” He was smiling. She could hear it in his voice, though her eyes remained closed, her brow still pressed to the warm silk of h
is chest. It hurt her heart to hear him speak so. “Tell me what you’d have of me. Tell me…” He paused for just a beat, “…Tell me how I can make you happy.”
Silence pervaded the room for a pregnant, seemingly endless interval during which neither of them breathed.
“You can’t.” Her voice was steady again, under control once more. “You can’t because you’re gone. If you lived and were wounded only, if you hadn’t been so damned stubborn and I hadn’t been so indulgent; you’d have been here, waiting to talk to me right now. I’d have been able to fix you – to mend your broken body with you still inside of it. If it’d proven too much for me, then…”
In her mind's eye; she saw the handsome pair of children she had made for them. The boy, sturdy and broad-shouldered, had Valad's soft brown waves and her wise, mountain-top-blue eyes. The girl, broad-shouldered but nimble, had eyes that matched Valad's golden-flecked-brown. Her hair shone the honey color Ylspeth had worn in her youth.
“I would get to meet you again for the first time, watch you grow, and grow beside you if you'd agreed…If you'd only stayed a little longer, we could have had-" She chuckled, pulling her arms around him in a brief, tight embrace, "…forever."
She released him, pulling back and looking up into his handsome face.
“But I waited too long, didn’t I?” She shook her head and stepped back. “Stood before me is nothing more than an echo of my oldest friend, perhaps my only friend. And while I’m grateful for this,” She gestured down the length of his body with her left hand. “This moment; I know that I pulled you from my memory, that my grieving mind tapped into the power of the Forge and called you forth to try and find some semblance of comfort …To help me make sense of it, and to say,” She drew in a ragged breath, then a second before she felt she had the strength to finish it. “…To say good…goodbye.”
He nodded, straightening his back and clasping his hands behind it. He still bore a smile, but now it was tinged with a mixture of sadness and resigned acceptance.
“…And you no longer need…the illusion?”
She smiled, a few last tears sliding down the soft curves of her face.
“No. I no longer need the illusion.”
“If you should ever find that you do…If you should ever require my counsel, my shoulder again; you have but to call. I meant what I said, Ylspeth. I will never leave you.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Drawing a last breath; she pulled it down past her navel and held it for a long moment. When she opened her eyes again; she was alone.
✽✽✽
TWO
Just after dawn; Greggor knocked at, then opened her chamber door. There were neither slaves nor servants in residence, so he, himself carried the small bowl of thin stew which would have to serve as her breakfast.
She ate without much relish, but with a fixed and focused intent. She didn’t much care for the trappings of public life which required her to eat and drink in front of others, but she’d become reluctantly accustomed to it.
As she ate; Greggor, ever the efficient administrator, detailed in brief all the preparations and respective statuses of their wagons, horse and oxen teams, her knights, and the dozen peasants that had fled Westsong with them.
When he’d finished, and was rising to take away the remnants of her meal, she held him fast with a question.
“Sir Greggor, have you given much thought in the last few hours, as to your future service to the Thorion Throne?”
“I have, Excellency.” Greggor’s voice was uncharacteristically tentative. “But I fear I haven’t come to any useful conclusions.”
“It is certainly within your right, and one could even argue that it is your duty to maintain control over a manorial estate in order to support yourself as a Knight of this realm.”
“Aye.” His face fell rather comically. “Yet as you know knighthood was never something I actively sought. I’ve always been quite content to serve the throne – to serve you in the same capacity that I have for so many years.”
She nodded, looked thoughtful for a moment, then changed the subject rather abruptly.
“Apart from your good self; who would you select from among your fellows yesterday as an effective leader?”
He paused for only a brief span before answering.
“Barnic, Kaith, Marcza, and Valgar.”
“Anyone else?”
“No, Excellency. The others, to a man, our stalwart and effective on the field. Their good folk, as well, which is important. Loyal folk.”
“But none of them displayed leadership beyond those four.”
He shook his head. As always; he was unapologetic for delivering plain truth without embellishment. Facts were facts. While there was no need to be crude or harsh; Greggor had never, in her experience at least, elected to dress facts in finery.
“Out of them; who would you say had the most tactical and strategic sense of the battlefield?”
“All of them had a fair tactical sense of the field, but if we are attempting to winnow down candidates; I would remove Barnic from the list. His instincts and tactical ability are excellent but quite reactionary."
“…And strategy?”
“If we’re speaking of adhering to the strategic goals set before them; all three are capable. If we’re speaking of determining strategy – developing it… Now we must eliminate Valgar. He understands the battlefield quite well. He can easily hold on to a long-term strategy. However; he’s unlikely to suggest one on his own. Valgar’s creative within the box he’s put in, but not quite creative enough to go and build a box, himself.”
“That leaves us with Sir Kaith and Dame Marcza.”
Greggor nodded a single time. He put on a thoughtful expression which lasted an uncharacteristically long time compared to his usual air of quiet competence.
“Excellency.” He said at last. “What, if I may, do you expect Kaith or Marcza to organize and lead?” He followed this question almost immediately with, “If I overstepped by asking…”
“Not at all," Ylspeth said, smiling genuinely for what felt like the first time in weeks. "What happened at Westsong was not, unless I am very much mistaken, an isolated incident. It was the first stroke in a larger war." She nodded at the man's widening eyes: the closest thing Greggor ever got to a look of shock. "Yes, I said war. Moreover; it will be a war the likes of which the wider world, to say nothing of County Thorion, is currently woefully unprepared to survive, let alone win."
“So the order you intend to have one of these two lead is your first step in readying, at the least, County Thorion to weather the storm?”
She nodded. Inwardly she thanked all the gods that ever were that Greggor had survived to ride out of Westsong with her.
“As much as I would love to tell you that Kaith is the best choice…”
“You don’t think that he is.” She nodded, then asked the obvious question. “Why not?”
“She has more skill with the sword, more word fame even before the events of Westsong, is the scion of a respected member of the gentry, and she is the only one of the pair who lost blood kin at Westsong.”
“I note you did not say that she was a better strategist or leader then Sir Kaith.”
“She isn’t, nor is Kaith better in those areas than she. If those were our only concerns when selecting a potential leader, the decision would be difficult.”
Ylspeth adopted the ghost of a grin and nodded.
“Aye, as you say, Excellency," he drew in a single breath, held it for a moment, then did as he'd been bidden. "She'll keep them talking if only to criticize the fact that a woman has been put in charge of an important military order. Should it become necessary; she will almost certainly defeat those who press that particular point too firmly in court – either by virtue of her sharp tongue, or her sword arm. Overall, she will serve to rally peasant and noble alike to whatever banner – whatever cause or duty you assign her."
“Go on, Sir Greggor. Say it.”
&nbs
p; “Dame Marcza will be able to lead men into battle and back out again in victory. Her hard-won respect and unmistakable prowess will see to that. Moreover; she will draw people to her. Could our Kaith inspire others? I think we both know the answer to that, if I may make so bold a claim. Yes; he certainly could, can, and ultimately will. Dame Marcza, however, already does. She inspires...”
“Peace, Greggor. I agree with you completely.”