‘He took that knife without hesitating. He groped for it at the bandit’s side, sure he’d find it there. And instead of quivering, he slit that bastard’s throat with a steady and decisive hand. He wasn’t scared of killing a man.’
Deanna could no longer see him as a boy. Not even on the long afternoons they spent together reading or chatting over a herbal tea. His face was veiled by how she pictured it in her dreams. His eyes seemed ready to change into a man’s gaze at any moment.
‘For love of the Gods, there must be something wrong with me...! Can I really be daydreaming about screwing a boy?!’
She could repeat it to herself countless times, reiterate the idea like a chorus, but it was no good. Deanna was still peering down into the yard, but she failed to find Mordraud. She waited a moment, and when she was about to give up, she spotted him coming out of a door at the back.
With a tub for washing clothes.
‘That’s enough now. I can’t spy on him, not while he...’
Mordraud filled it with water from the well, grabbed a piece of bluish soap from the laundry room, and began undressing.
‘He doesn’t even suspect that corner of the courtyard can be seen from this window. He isn’t visible from the street, nor from the other windows. If he lifts his eyes, he can’t see me...’
She’d never seen him naked. Deanna reddened until she felt her face burn, and she tried to avert her eyes. But she couldn’t.
‘Come on, stop it! I’m going to get up now and go.’
Mordraud got into the tub with his back to her and started wetting his shoulders and torso, rubbing himself energetically with the soap. His skin was soon covered by a light white lather.
‘Where was he hiding all those muscles?! He’s taller than me now and – OH, FOR LOVE OF THE GODS!’
Deanna clapped her hand over her mouth and pulled back, covering herself with the curtains.
‘Has he heard me?!’
She peeped out again and gazed down. Mordraud was glancing up towards her window. His teeth were biting the lace he usually tied his hair back with before coming down to the table to eat. But not always. Only when...
‘Adraman’s home for lunch today! Oh damn... If he catches me spying on Mordraud, I’m done for! And I haven’t got myself ready yet either!’
Deanna leapt up and ran out of the room, not without one last look at Mordraud, standing up in the tub.
A long careful look.
***
‘If you can’t free yourself from my grip, then you’re not ready to fight.’
How many times had he repeated that very same sentence, Adraman wondered. He smiled while trying to remember. He’d lost count. Each time he returned from the front, those were the first words he heard. Even before he’d slipped his cape off.
Mordraud would be waiting for him in the entrance hall, alone. Adraman had no time to make himself at home before he stretched out his hand, in his mute request for a new attempt. He’d never managed it. It all lasted a few brief moments of silence, broken only by the sentence. It wasn’t strength he lacked. He even had too much. But he was impulsive – he didn’t know how to use it.
“If you can’t free yourself from my grip, then you’re not ready to fight.”
Deanna knew nothing of this, and no servant had ever witnessed their little rite. Adraman wasn’t a man prone to tarnishing his word. As long as Mordraud insisted on trying, he’d allow him to. He’d never actually considered that he’d manage it sooner or later. After all, he was but a boy. He told himself that he’d change his mind with time. Like all youngsters.
However, Mordraud showed no signs of giving up. How long was it since he’d made his promise? Adraman counted the seasons while he tied the horse up near the stables. “Two years, more or less. That summer we were still bogged down near the Hann front. Last year we lost it, and now we’ve managed to get it back... Yes, two years.”
It was a flaw of his. Adraman only managed to keep track of passing time by basing himself on the war’s events. Thus a spring became the battle of the oak, a past winter was merely the building of the new Rampart branch, and so on, right back to the start of the war. The only event that had managed to override a victory or a defeat in his mind was his wedding to Deanna.
‘She was little more than a child... I should have waited and turned down her father’s offer. But if I’d waited, she’d never have accepted me of her own free will. We wouldn’t have married...’
Would that have been good or bad? As skilled as Adraman might be at making decisions that saved or condemned whole platoons of soldiers, the dilemmas of his private life remained just that. The methods he used in helming a difficult ten-year war seemed ridiculously simple alongside the complexity of a marriage.
‘But things are better now. If everything could stay as it is now...’
Deanna had changed enormously, so much so that he almost no longer recognised her. They still argued, and weeks would go by without even as much as brushing against each other, but these were trifles compared to the past. His wife was yielding with more enthusiasm at last, showing him a passion she’d never revealed to him before. Adraman was once again happy at the idea of returning home.
“A true blessing...” he mumbled, opening the door. Mordraud was there, ready and waiting.
Adraman lifted his hand and made to squeeze the impertinent boy in his steely vice. Mordraud planted his feet firmly on the ground, took his hand and began tugging.
“Welcome back, dear.”
Mordraud leapt away like a wound-up spring, and Adraman went back to undoing the knot on his cape. The rite had been violated.
“Thank you, darling. Would you tell the staff to prepare the lunch?”
Deanna came downstairs and hugged him. Mordraud hung back, standing straight and gazing humbly at the floor. “I’ve already informed them. Everything’s ready and on the table.”
“Oh, thanks Mordraud!” Deanna moved closer, brushing his shoulder lightly. “I was upstairs reading... I lost track of the time.”
Adraman contemplated the scene, fascinated by a new detail. Something he’d never noticed before – and only at that moment did it all become clear. He spent too much time away from home, he told himself, bitterly. Each time he returned, it was as if he had to get used to lots of little things all over again.
Mordraud had stiffened at Deanna’s touch. She had thanked him with a sort of caress. Behaviour that would have been natural when he was still a page-boy, a child serving a lady of rank.
Mordraud was taller than his wife now. And he showed the first signs of a beard. He was clean, neat and well-dressed.
Not only was he no longer a child, he was a boy just a step away from becoming a man – and a rather handsome one at that.
Adraman felt a strange convulsion rise from his stomach.
***
“The hare’s excellent, don’t you think, dear?”
Adraman nodded, forcing an unconvincing smile. The food tasted like boiled hide. The wine like stagnant water. The bread like a block of dried mud.
“Try the potatoes too, they’re delicious. Adrina baked them just the way you like them, under the hot cinders in the fire.”
“Thank you... afterwards perhaps...”
How hadn’t he thought of it? Sooner or later Mordraud was going to grow up, but he’d expected it to be further away in time. Instead, that shy boy had taken the rough shape of a man in little over two years. How was it possible? He couldn’t understand such a strange thing. ‘Perhaps he was so set on beating me that his will also defeated time... But what nonsense,’ he reflected, skewering a well-cooked piece of rabbit leg. His favourite dish. His stomach went on shuddering, and rejected any morsel of food.
A storm of doubts buffeted in his mind, threatening to drive him off-course. Deanna had been acting differently towards him for some time, but why? Were the pair having an affair, and she felt guilty? Even if he was still immature, had Mordraud dared seduce his wife?
“Sorry darling, but I’m already full. I think I’ll have a bath now, you know, after my journey...”
“Won’t you wait until after lunch?” she asked, frowning. “It’s not like you.”
“No... You see, I feel a little unwell. Maybe something I ate yesterday has... umm... upset my stomach.”
Deanna didn’t reply and sent Mordraud to call the servants. “The table is to be cleared and a bath needs preparing for the master.”
“I’ll see to the bath,” answered Mordraud.
Adraman left the table, apologising again to Deanna. Mordraud’s intent was clear. Their rite had only been put off to a more convenient moment. He reached his bedroom walking at a good pace, and slumped down in the armchair, striving to recover at least a little composure.
“What’s happening to me?! I have to stay calm. This is not a cavalry charge... I’ve only just noticed, but it might simply be my imagination... I’m away from home for too long. And when I come back, I see things differently...”
And if he were wrong, he mulled over, with a grim expression on his face. Might it just be a misunderstanding?
In the end, when he heard a knock at the door, he’d reached a decision.
“Come in.”
Mordraud went in, dragging a wooden tub already half-full of hot water. ‘You’re in quite a hurry, my boy... I never bathe in my room. So you want to be alone with me, do you?’ he thought, irked. ‘It’s no longer a game, or some silly rite...’
Mordraud locked the door and left the tub in the middle of the room. With a resolute expression, he stood before Adraman and stretched out his hand.
‘He’ll be tall enough to look me level in the eye in a few months...’ the captain observed, accepting the challenge. He drew towards his chest with all his might, and Mordraud hunched his shoulders at once and contended to withstand him.
He could call Larois and explain his unease. Mordraud would disappear from the house before the morning. But he’d still be in Eld, near her.
“You’ve grown even stronger, my boy.”
Mordraud pulled in desperation, as he gritted his teeth in an animal-like grimace. Adraman felt Mordraud’s arm surge to a power he’d never before reached, but he could hold out. He wouldn’t lose that day, either.
Adraman subtly loosened his grip.
“I wanted to surprise you, sir,” Mordraud whispered, with a wry smile. “I mean, Adraman...”
His strength suddenly rose. Adraman began pulling again as hard as he could, but it was now too late. Mordraud dragged Adraman until he could squeeze him to his chest. The roles had reversed.
“I’ve won.”
Mordraud said nothing else. Adraman expected cries of joy, even a comment. After all, the boy had been waiting for his day of glory for two years. Yet Mordraud didn’t seem elated, or even happy at his victory.
‘He’s no longer a boy. He knows this is just the first step. One of many.’
If he’d only known Mordraud would win that day, he said to himself, feeling vaguely guilty. Whether he deserved it or not was unimportant. Adraman had already made his choice about how their game would end.
‘You can no longer stay at my wife’s side, my boy.’
***
“LAROIS! LAROIS!”
The old innkeeper was dozing on the veranda at the rear, enjoying the warm air of a lovely spring day. Her back wasn’t as sturdy as it used to be. She had to make more time to rest, she thought, as she lazed.
“I’m here, Gwern... What is it?” she answered, yawning.
“At the market... I heard Adrina talking to... to...”
“Now calm down, take a deep breath, and start again.” Larois took Gwern and placed him on her lap. He was gasping and sweaty. “You’ll have one of your fits if you do that, you know you will. You mustn’t strain yourself.”
“MORDRAUD’S GOING OFF TO FIGHT IN THE WAR!”
Larois opened her eyes wide and was unable to speak. Instead, Gwern was a flowing river of words.
“Adrina was speaking to Lera, the baker’s wife. She said Adraman’s come home and wants to take Mordraud with him. She says he’s taking him to the front. She was expecting it, as he’s handsome and she doesn’t understand why the master lets his wife have such a handsome young man in the house. And that he’s hardy, and that lots of them leave young and never come back. Down there you die if you’re not a bit shrewd, and he’s still a boy, and...”
“Wait, slow down!” Larois stroked his hair to try to calm him, but it was pointless. Gwern was shaking like a leaf and was stammering incoherent phrases. “Mordraud’s still very young. He’s not ready to be a soldier. You must have got it wrong!”
“You haven’t seen him for ages...” whined Gwern through his tears. “He’s grown. You wouldn’t believe it... but he’s taller than you, and has two arms as big as tree trunks, and a beard. You’d hardly recognise him.”
“What are you saying?! Deanna would have told me, wouldn’t she?! And besides, he can’t just grow as he pleases! He was a child just a couple of years ago!”
“HE’S TWENTY-TWO!”
It was like a slap in the face for Larois. It was impossible, madness! The ravings of a child with an over-active imagination.
“I don’t believe you. I can’t believe it.”
“He’s ten years older than me, and I’m twelve...”
“I DON’T BELIEVE YOU!” the old woman cried, throwing the boy to the ground. Gwern began whimpering again, curled up on the veranda floor. “You can only be seven at the most! LOOK AT YOU! What are you, two monsters?!”
Larois felt herself die inside. Blinded by the joy of having a child in the house, she hadn’t noticed that Gwern had changed very little over the years. She’d let herself be tricked by the fact that he wasn’t really her son. For her, Gwern was her sole chance of having a child to look after again. And as such she’d idealised him, she’d frozen him in time.
“No, we’re not...”
“Twenty-two! That’s ridiculous! Then for love of the Gods, how old was he when I sent him off to Deanna’s? Eighteen?! Nineteen?!”
Gwern nodded in terror. He’d never told anyone their secret, just like Mordraud had instructed him many a time. But only then did he realise he’d done a very foolish thing.
“Eglade... our mum... was an Aelian.”
“Who?!”
Gwern shook his head gently. Larois was hardly hearing him now. She was looking around, confused and disoriented.
“She was an Aelian...”
Larois went pale. For a moment, Gwern thought she was going to faint.
“Aelians?! But they don’t exist! They’re just stuff of old legends!”
“No, Larois, that’s not how it is,” mumbled Gwern, distraught. “The stories they tell are overdone or entirely invented, but the Aelians exist... My mother belonged to this people. She was much older than you, yet she looked like a young woman. Mordraud explained to me that it’s the blood we share with our mother that makes us grow so slowly.”
“That’s why Mordraud knew all those stories... Oh for love of the Gods, the Gods...” murmured Larois, holding her face in her hands. “So there’s something true in the legends. When I was a girl, there was still a lot of talk about them... The forgotten people... The eternal people...”
“And now? What are we going to do?”
“An Aelian...” Larois seemed to be lost in her thoughts. “Never heard such stuff... Impossible... Twenty-two...”
“Larois, please! What are we going to do now?!”
“I don’t know! What you’re saying doesn’t make sense. How could you grow old more slowly than me, than us...?”
“My mother never explained it to me, she died too soon... Mordraud took care of everything. He rarely wanted to talk about our ancestors. He just told me it was a secret.”
Larois muttered something, but then fell silent. Even if what she was hearing didn’t make any sens
e to her, something inside her told her Gwern wasn’t fibbing. Since she’d known him, he practically hadn’t changed. Instead her son Nardo was different every day when he was about that age. Her desire to feel a mother again had completely deceived her. Gwern wasn’t lying, she decided. But the idea was too large for her to fully understand its implications.
“We have to do something! We have to stop him!” Gwern went on, in despair.
“We can’t do anything, don’t you see that?!” she yelled, fuming. “It’s too late now. I thought he was a child, that he’d change his mind with time... Instead, he was already a man. We’ve only helped him to what he wanted! DAMN IT ALL!”
Gwern had shrunk up on the ground at the foot of her chair. Larois had a great urge to slap his face, to make him take back everything he’d said. She didn’t know why, but she found it relatively easy accepting she’d had two unlikely half-breeds in her house. It was as if she’d already suspected, but without realising. A pure maternal instinct: she blindly believed Gwern’s words. She could feel he wasn’t lying.
“There’s nothing we can do now. We can only hope he sees how dreadful war is and decides to come home. We can only hope...”
“And you, now... do I...?” wept Gwern.
“No, no!” she replied at once, pulling him up and hugging him. “No, I won’t throw you out... I’m so sorry...”
“Even if my mother was an... an Aelian?”
“That means nothing. You’re still my Gwern.” Larois’s voice had returned to kindness, and he could start breathing again. “Also because I know nothing of the eternal people... You’re like a son to me. I don’t care who your mother was. And it doesn’t matter if you grow slower than I do... Besides, I’ve already got one foot in the grave. No, I won’t throw you out, don’t you worry.”
“Don’t say that!” Gwern whimpered, in desperation.
“Don’t fret. I was only joking... Now, do you feel like telling me who the Aelians really are? I don’t want any more secrets between us. And as far as that little bastard of your brother is concerned...” Larois murmured with a fatigued smile, “We can only hope that, once he’s found out for himself what war is really like, he will want to stay as far away from it as possible.”
Mordraud, Book One Page 25