"Fine." Chestnut sighed. "All right, at least we can have a nice walk around the keep, okay? This is where our present wheat crop is coming in. And over there is Father's apple orchard. It's been an investment, as Father would say, leaving those lands untouched for so many years, waiting for the trees to grow to maturity, but we had an excellent apple harvest last year. The fruit was crisp and sweet! Truly, it was our most profitable tract of land. Seeing how happily the trees took to the soil, we're thinking of devoting more land to apple trees, though I suggested we might also want to start planting pear trees. I told him that the fruit might sell even better, but between you and me? I just like the taste of pears! Oh, guys, take a look. Your grain train is almost ready!"
Having just turned the corner of the keep, Sorn and his cousins followed Chestnut's gaze to the numerous wagons that were almost completely filled with burlap sacks of grain, adjustments being made as needed, axles being checked over even at that moment to make sure that all was ready for the journey on the morrow. Chestnut went on to point out what the men were doing and why it was important, and how her father's wagons had been made expressly to support the weight of the harvests he brought to Pormar every year. She then explained why it was important to have several skilled animal handlers among the armsmen, to make sure that the donkeys, mules, and horses that would be used tomorrow all went at a consistent pace.
"Did you see how the builds of our mounts are somewhat different from the horses that will be carting the wagons?" Chestnut said after they had completed their circuit of the keep and were, with some assistance in the case of Sorn and his cousins, dismounting from their horses at the stables. She was pointing to a number of horses kept in adjoining stables to the ones the stable boys led their own mounts to. Sorn did note their bigger hocks and deeper chests as Chestnut continued explaining the differences between the various types of mounts. "Those guys are draft horses. They're not too fast, and are a bit shy around loud noises, but they have a very strong stride, so are useful for pulling wagons, carts, or perhaps most importantly, plows. About half of our horses are draft horses.
"The horses we were riding are not as deep in the chest, but they are faster, smarter, and are trained to obey commands even when in a fight. These are the horses that our armsmen use." Chestnut gave her mare an affectionate pat before the stable boy took her away to rub her down and put her to stable.
Hanz's face bore a quizzical look as he turned to face Chestnut. "I noticed that some of the people filling the wagons and checking the axles and whatnot weren't just freemen, but were armsmen as well. Do they also have to do farmwork around the keep?"
"Well of course!" Chestnut said, as if the answer should be obvious. "Most of our men grew up on Father's lands and had been farmers all their lives before coming here to train as Father's men. The truth is that we are a peaceful land, hereabouts, at least in the last generation, and we are far more interested in growing than in fighting. Father is a noble by blood, but a farmer at heart, and though history and common sense demands a well-fortified keep, our men have had no trouble, save from the very occasional bandit. This suits us all well, as trouble is bad for farming, and battle leads to tragedy. Even should our men successfully defend our lands from attack, still there would be a price to pay. Not only in lives lost but in the tears and sorrow of those left behind. Remember, most of our guardsmen are family men too."
Chestnut paused a moment, her expression turning grave. Sorn could well imagine the grim memories no doubt hitting her, and gently touched her shoulder, a silent gesture of comfort. She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment, relaxing against Sorn's reassuring contact before abruptly giving herself a shake, eyes popping open bright and animated, doing her best to dispel whatever grim visions had momentarily haunted her.
"It is to all our relief that we don't need fear attack with our well-trained armsmen here to protect us. Yet still we have over sixty extra mouths to feed, plus the men's families, so they do their part in helping Father with his personal lands, such as tilling the fields and bringing in the autumn harvest. After all, every one of them is a farmer at heart, and Father is probably the fairest master anyone could ask for."
Chestnut grinned, nodding in approval as her eyes caught sight of a group of men training in the distance. "Of course, Jesren trains our men well, every day save Freeday. Half our men train with swords and bows during the morning, and help with the fields come afternoon, the other half training in the noon after caring for our crops in the morning. Except during the height of harvest, of course, wherein all able-bodied hands are needed to bring in the crops before rot or frost can destroy them. After all, one never knows when Duke Nevontain may go to war and call service from Father and our men, so we need to make sure our men know how to fight as well as farm. And this way, instead of being burdened with the care of sixty armsmen, we benefit from what amounts to thirty extra farmhands, not to mention all the help given by the wives and bairns of those who are married. Besides, Father does pay them for their efforts, and they know that no matter what happens to them, Father will always have a place for their families. So fear not, guys. Our men are as skilled as most soldiers, just less lazy!"
The five youths spent the rest of the day together, Chestnut teaching Sorn and his cousins about life at the keep. She, in turn, was kept smiling by the antics of Sorn's cousins, and the outrageous things they said and claimed about their own home. Chestnut seemed quite entertained by what she could only assume, much to Sorn's relief, were the amusing stories of those who loved to tell a fanciful tale.
It was a peaceful afternoon as they walked through the fields of wheat like a golden sea, rippling in the refreshing breeze amidst the backdrop of a melancholy sky. The day was both sweet and poignant, all the more precious for its brevity as heavy clouds brought an early twilight as they made their way back to the keep, Sorn and Chestnut side by side as the triplets raced ahead, laughing with the day.
"I will miss you when you go." Chestnut turned to Sorn, bringing the full impact of her warm brown gaze to bear, and Sorn couldn't help but note the light splash of freckles on her nose, the brilliance of her smile. "Thank you again for rescuing us. We owe you our lives, Sorn. You and your cousins, I mean." She reached out her hand, gently touching his arm. Sorn could feel a sense of expectation, a poignancy. He felt a curious tingle coursing up and down his spine, his eyes locked upon Chestnut's own. He took a deep breath, overwhelmed by emotions he couldn't quite understand.
Sorn swallowed. "It was our pleasure. Truly. No matter what happens to my cousins and me, I will find solace in the fact that I was able to save such good people as you and your father, who care so much about your people and your land."
Chestnut gave Sorn a concerned look. "You’re worried about you and your cousins. I can tell. What's wrong?"
"Chestnut, I worry a great deal, but there is no help for it. We need to go forth and make our fortunes, we have needs that must be met, and this is the best way that I can think of to achieve that end. What we do will have its risks, from what your father has told us, but then what in life doesn't?" Sorn smiled, letting go of Chestnuts hand with a gentle, final squeeze.
Chestnut continued to pin Sorn with her soft, concerned gaze. "Is this about those artifacts? About going to the Royal Arcane Academy to learn how to focus your magics and use your artifacts appropriately?"
"Somewhat," Sorn allowed. "You could say that has something to do with all this. Chestnut, let's please keep this between ourselves, but you could say that my magic has a price, though not the grave risk of mishap that your wizard is so worried about. I am not quite the bumbling apprentice that Valentien takes me for." Chestnut couldn't help smiling at that. "But my magics do burn up a lot of, well, fuel, you could say. It's why my cousins and I have such big appetites. And soon my cousins and I will need to stretch our wings, so to speak, and our appetites will grow all the more. And as the saying goes, nothing eats so well as a rich man's belly, hey?"
Chestnuts g
aze was more concerned than ever. "It sounds like you and your cousin's artifacts are dangerous, that they require so much of you, so much sustenance from you, like it's burning you up from the inside."
Despite Chestnut’s shocked expression, Sorn couldn’t help bursting into bitter laughter.
"Oh, you could say that dear Chestnut, you could say that indeed. It is a fire that can never be quenched, however, and sometimes it needs to feed." Sorn said this last bit with a smile, as if trying to make it all appear a joke.
Chestnut's look said she wasn't buying it. "Sorn, you don't have to do this, you know. You don't have to use those artifacts. You already saved us. You showed yourself noble and true, and you don't have to prove that to anybody. We are safe, here. It is okay to be yourself again. And think of your cousins. Should they be wearing those artifacts all the time if it is burning them up from the inside, and they have to eat like horses just to survive? Sorn, they're squires now. They could put their suits of magic mail away and train, as any other lad would do. They could learn so much under Jesren right here! And after a few years, they could easily be squired off to any knight worthy of his name. Jesren himself believes they have natural talent under all their magic armor. You don't have to go to York, Sorn. You could stay and study here, under Valentien. I know he acts like a know-it-all sometimes, but he is really a very nice man, and a good teacher. And if you just need to know how to work your magic safely to use your artifacts safely, well, I can't think of a safer or more thorough teacher than Valentien. He always emphasizes that he won't cast a spell for us until he knows it so well it's flawless, so we need never worry about mishap."
Sorn felt Chestnut's warm fingers squeezing his hand, and for some strange reason he couldn't seem to pull his gaze from the deep pools of her eyes, wondering why his heart was pounding away like he was flying as fast as his wings could take him.
"You don't need those artifacts burning you up from the inside out to be a wonderful mage or a wonderful person, Sorn. You and your cousins would be safe, right here. Father would see to that. Stay. Just be yourself, normal you! I like you, Sorn, just the way you are."
Sorn breathed deeply, feeling a heady rush of he knew not what course through him, desperate to keep himself together. "Thank you, Chestnut. I… thank you. It is nice to know that there are people who care for me. Me and my cousins. I want you to know I will always consider you and your family as friends to me and my people." He stared at Chestnut, who seemed somehow hurt, though he couldn't understand why. "Chestnut. We have to do this. I wish I could explain it better, but I can't. I can only say that this is something we have to do."
Chestnut gazed at him softly for a moment longer, then gently stepped away. Sorn felt a curious ache where her hand had been, wanting the comfort of its presence there again. "If you have to leave Sorn, then I bid you farewell. You had best head back to the keep. Dinner will soon be ready, and I know how you and your cousins have to eat." With that, she turned around, deaf to Sorn's half-hearted calls to her.
It was a terribly confused Sorn who made his way back to the keep.
"To our heroes! May your journeys always be swift, the weather always pleasant, and may your trades prosper!" Lord Canterbier, cheeks a rosy red from the fine wine being poured, saluted the four lads with a cheer quickly picked up by his men. It had been an excellent dinner, the triplets eating ravenously as always, particularly Lieberman, for some reason. Sorn, strangely, found his hunger muted. Having halted after only three helpings of just about everything, he found his mind going back to his conversation with Chestnut, whose presence was strangely absent from the dining hall. Several more rounds of warm farewells went around, and soon enough the youths were enjoying the luxury of a final hot bath before bed.
It came as no surprise to Sorn that his cousins were once again adverse to sleeping alone. Waking from a tired doze only long enough to cast a ward of alarm upon the room they shared, he soon found himself lulled back to sleep by the comforting presence of his cousins, lying splayed on top of one another like kittens.
7
"Leave me alone, Lieberman," Sorn found himself mumbling at what felt to be a hideously indecent hour after having been gently poked in the belly. He could vaguely recall hearing Maleks politely informing them that the grain carts were all in order, and that the men were ready to get an early start on the day.
Lieberman tilted his head, gazing at Sorn curiously.
"How did you know it was me?"
"Because you always poke me in the belly like that, when you want me to get up." Sorn sighed, rubbing bleary eyes. "If you were Fitz, you would just yell "Sorn, wake up!" And if you were Hanz you might just put something on me and snicker, if you were in a peculiar mood."
"I would not!" Hanz objected with righteous indignation. "At least I haven't, for weeks! Or at least, a week… anyway, Sorn, we have to get going!"
"I know," Sorn yawned, packing up his things. It was then that Sorn remembered the guard's promise the day before, and sure enough, he found the promised broadsword leaning against the wall outside his door, silver-inlaid swept hilt flashing in rich contrast to the fine black leather sheath encasing the blade. He quickly brought it in, unsheathing the blade and showing it off to his admiring cousins. It was not mithril, but the steel had a nice shine to it, and the protective hilt was exquisite, just as the guard had promised. After adroitly flowing into a fencer's stance and executing a rapid series of feints, slashes, and lunges, he judged the balance to be, if anything, slightly more suitable than it had been before. Truly, Sorn thought, Lord Canterbier was blessed with a remarkable smith.
"Nice sword, Sorn!" A smiling Fitz complemented.
"Yeah, I especially like the hilt. All nice and shiny!" Hanz agreed.
Lieberman just smiled, nodding his head in silent agreement, looking pleased that his cousin finally had a sword of his own.
Sorn then stopped to peer closely at his blade with a concerned frown. "Say, do you guys know if this thing needs sharpening? I know our mithril blades don't, but I thought I remembered reading somewhere once about a good soldier always having two whetstones, and I seem to recall that has something to do with sharpening something."
"How should we know, Sorn?" Fitz said, speaking for all of them. "Everything we know we got from you. It's not like we read some tome you haven't!"
"Fair enough," Sorn allowed. "I guess I'll have to ask one of the guardsmen once we get traveling."
Soon enough, the controlled chaos of almost a dozen grain wagons being readied for a rapid departure turned to an orderly procession departing Lord Canterbier's lands for the port city of Pormar. Sorn smiled as he turned around to gaze at the keep receding behind him, quickly noting a small figure in the distance on horseback giving a final wave, which Sorn returned. Chestnut's words had been warm when she had met them in front of the keep that morning, telling him to take care of himself, and that he and his cousins would always be welcome there, should things not work out in York, before giving him an impulsive hug and wishing him well.
People, Sorn reflected, were confusing.
"Beautiful morning, isn't it?" A fully armored Jesren declared from horseback with a chuckle, giving a sympathetic shake of his armored head to Sorn sitting on the wagon nearby when the dark clouds overhead finally broke, drenching them all with a chilly spring rain.
"I'm afraid I'll have to disagree with you there, my friend," Sorn smiled. "I think I'll go seek cover under the tarp with the grain."
"Afraid that's not too feasible, friend Sorn. The wagons are carefully balanced weight-wise as it is, and there is hardly room under the tarp for a lad your size, nearly full-grown as you are. Looks like you'll just have to get wet like the rest of us." Jesren and several of the nearby men-at-arms laughed good-naturedly.
"Ah, but you see my friend, this is one of the advantages of being a crow!" With that Sorn's form shimmered, transforming into a very self-satisfied crow indeed who adroitly fluttered to the back of his wagon, easily fi
tting himself between tarp and grain sacks. Slight as it was, his form was still strong enough to shift the thirty-pound sacks of grain in order to make himself a more comfortable roost. His sword, unlike his clothes, did not make the transition, clunking against the leg of a very startled looking wagon handler who almost jumped out of his own skin.
"Why I'll be darned," Jesren whistled to himself in amazement. "He actually did it!"
"Oh, okay Sorn, that's really subtle, Mr. Be Discreet!" grumbled an irritated looking Fitz, none too happy with the rain drenching his clothes and hair.
"Ah but you see dear cousin, everyone knows I'm the mage of this outfit!" Sorn said, snug and dry under the tarp.
Fitz gave Sorn a raspberry to the latter's laughter, a strange sound coming from a crow, and then proceeded to ignore him.
The day was relatively uneventful, though cold rations while being rained upon was not something that anyone would ever miss, and soon enough they found themselves approaching the edge of Deepwood.
"All right, men, crossbows ready!" Jesren ordered, every wagon handler taking a moment to pull up a crossbow wrapped in oiled cloth, heretofore kept under their benches, kept cocked and ready by their side. "Let's make sure that there is no repeat of being caught unawares in these woods."
At that point, Sorn poked his beak out from under the warm tarp, alerted from his comfortable doze to the possibility that there might be trouble up ahead. "Jesren, I'm going to scout ahead. I'll tell you if I find anything funny." With those words, Sorn raced away through the treetops arching over the path ahead.
"I'll never get over that," Jesren chuckled softly, before turning to his men. "Let's get a move on. Keep it slow and steady."
Reveling as always in the joy of flight, the rush of air underneath his wings, the curious tingle in his belly as he dove to and fro, Sorn nevertheless kept an eye out below. He soon came to the clearing where he and his cousins had so readily taken out the bandits before. In the heat of the battle, and subsequently, in the rush to save Chester's life, who was still comatose from what Sorn understood, they had not thought to give the bandits a proper burial. Sorn couldn’t help noting with some disgust via his finally tuned senses that neither had anyone else, the sickly sweet stench of decomposition emanating from the mangled remains below.
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