by Brian Fuller
“I ordered no such thing!”
The First Mother grinned. “Of course not, just like I didn’t order Gerand and Volney to help Gen. Well, I think you are far too angry for further discussion now. I wish you the best of luck training your new Pontiff.”
Mirelle strode back inside, face pleasant, to a room full of questioning glances. Athan did not return until everything was packed and everyone mounted. He did not speak another word that day.
Chapter 51 - The Gate of Three Dreams
Gerand watched helplessly through the warded entry as Volney paced around the Hall of Three Moons over and over again. Unlike his unrelenting comrade in arms, Gerand had given up the search. They had inspected every inch of the smooth, white structure, hoping for any hint of a place where Gerand might slip through Athan’s ward and escape. He and Volney had come up empty every time they had searched since daybreak. The building’s narrow windows defied defenestration and the warded main entrance was the only opening into or out of the structure.
Gerand shook his head as Volney came around for another pass. It was time to get the big hearted Rhugothian to leave him behind. The Chalaine and the First Mother needed Gen. They loved him. They relied on him. His escape would give them courage, even if he couldn’t be with them.
“Volney,” Gerand called. “Come here.”
His friend approached, face resolute but eyes showing panic. “There must be a way!”
“It’s hopeless, Volney,” Gerand said, trying to drill the point home to the determined young man. “My only chance of escape is if Athan decides to drop the ward or is killed. Since I killed the Aughmerian soldier, Athan cannot know that Gen is free and his ward now useless. I should have thought about that before I ran the man through. But what’s done is done.”
“You couldn’t have foreseen this,” Volney said.
“I could have, but I didn’t. Get Gen on that horse and get moving. Now. You need to keep as close to Lady Khairn’s party as possible. With just the two of you, you can ride. You’ve got to leave me here. Go.”
Volney turned away, face fixed in a sad scowl of frustration. Gen lay just a few feet away. While otherwise lethargic, the Chalaine’s fallen Protector had managed to don his socks and boots at some point during the night. Otherwise, he mimicked a corpse in demeanor and movement, and only the weak rise and fall of his chest from drawing breath and the sweat beading on his forehead from a persistent fever offered proof that he yet lived.
Volney paced around, hands on his hips, eyes roving everywhere as if searching for a solution in the trees and the sky.
“Volney,” Gerand said, tone firm, “there is no decision here. You do not stand before two paths needing to decide which to take. Go. Now!”
“Shut up, Gerand. I’m trying to think.”
Gerand shook his head in disgust and wandered back into the Hall of Three Moons. While it was daytime, gray cloud cover prevented the light from possessing any strength. The Hall felt like entering a room where someone lies sick and near death, a place where everyone holds their breath and fears to speak loudly for fear of disturbing the afflicted.
The wilted blossoms clung to his socks as he walked. He ran his hand through his dark hair, frustration burning off into acceptance. When he had learned of the Aughmerian invasion, he had waking dreams of victory and defeat. He either returned conqueror or died in the midst of some manly charge to rescue a beleaguered company or to break through impenetrable defenses. At the very least, he died with his boots on with a slew of enemies dead at his feet. Now he faced the most helpless, inglorious end he could imagine—starving to death alone and miles from home. In his socks.
Pushing these thoughts aside he tried to formulate some argument that would get Volney on the horse riding north. The appeal to duty had not worked, so he would try to seed a false hope inside his stubborn companion.
If I can convince Volney that escape is possible given time, Gerand thought, he may feel more comfortable leaving, even if in his heart he does not believe my words.
As he paced, arranging his thoughts into a persuasive argument, his eye caught Gen’s sword lying on the floor several feet away from where the Pontiff had trapped his countryman. Gerand stooped and grabbed it. It was an ordinary weapon, save for its blade upon which an eagle with spread wings had been engraved on both sides so faintly that only close inspection would reveal it. The bird’s demeanor was fierce, beak open and claws extended. Something about the design tickled Gerand’s memory.
He walked back to the opening where Gerand still paced around the patio. “Volney! I found Gen’s sword. There is an engraving on it that is familiar, but I can’t place it. Here. Take a look and then put it back in Gen’s scabbard.” Gerand put the sword on the ground and slid it through the ward. “When you’re done, throw me my boots. I’m rather tired of pulling blossoms off my socks.”
Gerand wasn’t sure that Volney heard his last request. He had retrieved the sword, and, after examining the blade, Volney’s jaw dropped and he sputtered parts of words before coherency returned.
“I . . . I cannot believe he has this! It’s unfathomable! The First Mother must have . . . but . . . I am unworthy to touch it!”
Volney dropped the sword as if it had cut him and backed away from it.
“What?” Gerand yelled loudly enough to break through Volney’s stupor.
Volney pointed at the sword. “That . . . that is the sword of Aldradan Mikmir! No one was supposed to touch it until his return! Oh! If anyone knew Gen had it, the First Mother would be in a great deal of trouble!”
“Incredible!” Gerand said. “The First Mother must truly admire Gen to give him such a prestigious gift. Pass it back through so I can get another look at it.”
“No!” Volney objected. “You have always nagged me about matters of propriety, and this, my friend, is far and away ten times as serious a matter as anything you have ever scolded me for.”
“So what are you going to do, just let it sit there and rust? At least return it to Gen if you won’t give it to me.”
“This blade does not rust.”
“That wasn’t my point. We just can’t leave it sitting there for anyone to pick up.”
“I’ve got to think.”
“Well,” Gerand said, “while you are thinking, pass my boots through. My waterskin would be nice, too. I might as well starve as slowly as possible.”
Volney retrieved the boots from the hedge and threw them toward the entrance. As they were passing through the opening, they stopped as if hitting an invisible wall, bouncing back onto the patio. He tried again with the same result.
“One moment,” Gerand said, fetching the Aughmerian blade he had intended to give to Gen. He repeated what he had done with Aldradan’s blade, but the soldier’s sword stopped abruptly just as the boots had.
“I’m sorry, Gerand,” Volney apologized at these failures. “I wish it hadn’t. . .”
“Volney, you idiot, pass me Aldradan’s sword.”
“What?”
“Pass . . . me . . . Mikmir’s . . . sword!”
Volney’s eyes widened. “Of course! The blade could do wondrous things in the stories. They say that Aldradan could not be kept from going anywhere he wanted. There was this battle at. . .”
“Pass me the sword!”
“Oh, right. Of course!” Volney sent the blade skidding across the stones and Gerand eagerly grabbed it, standing and holding it before him. He breathed in and walked forward slowly.
“Maybe you should get a run at it,” Volney suggested.
Gerand ignored him, maintaining a stately pace. As he approached the arched opening, he could feel the sickness coming, but just as he was about to despair, something pushed the discomfort out and away from him, the nauseous stirring in his stomach disappearing. Emboldened, he strode forward, crossing the threshold to join his friend on the patio.
“Amazing!” Gerand rejoiced, laughing for joy. “Gen had the power to leave this place the whole
time and probably never knew it. Get the horse, and let’s get out of here.”
Volney whooped and set off toward the tree where their brown stallion munched on a tuft of grass. Gerand examined Gen while Volney fastened the saddle and saddlebags. Their swordmate was little better than a corpse, breath shallow and face slick with sweat. Gerand shook his head and buckled Aldradan’s sword about his own waist.
Volney approached with the horse. “I think we should just tie the sword to the horse and . . . Hey! Unbuckle that sword from your hip! You can’t use that! You’re insulting my entire nation!”
Gerand rolled his eyes. “Volney, there is propriety and then there is survival. Like my father told me, ‘When the enemy is at the gates, don’t put cushions in the catapults.’”
“What is that supposed to mean?
“Simply that you use your resources to their best advantage when there is danger about. This sword is the best weapon we have. To not use it under these circumstances would be folly.”
“All right,” Volney said. “But I’m the Rhugothian, so it would be more appropriate if I carried it, I think.”
Gerand shook his head. Volney just didn’t get it. “But the sword was given to Gen—who is my countryman—so it is only fitting that I carry it for him—until he is able to take it up again, of course. Besides—and no offense—I am the better swordsman.”
“Says who?”
During the ensuing argument, Gerand and Volney hoisted Gen over the horse and Gerand kept the sword. They left the deserted city, Gen draped awkwardly over the horse. Gerand was glad to be underway, thankful for a spark of hope after a morning of despair. The sun finally broke through the clouds as they crossed the bridge over Mora Lake.
“Eldaloth favors us today,” Gerand said, thankful for the light.
Volney nodded in agreement. “I think we’d better make a litter for Gen. He doesn’t appear too comfortable. You should try the sword on some branches, Gerand. They say it could cut through armor like . . . er . . . one of several comparisons not springing to mind.”
“Use this sword to chop at a tree? Talk about dishonoring Aldradan and your nation, Volney! Here we have the blade that cut down Goras the Dire, hewed two hundred Uyumaak necks at Aumat, and felled Kudat the giant. Aldradan lifted it high to gather his armies, with it tapped the shoulders of aspiring knights to elevate them to service, and set it upon his knees while dispensing King’s justice to rogues and fiends. Now you’d have me attack a pine tree with it? I can’t believe you would even suggest such a thing!”
The Chalaine rode, thoughts inward, as the forested terrain around her slid by. The sun had emerged the day after she broke her wrist, and while at first the sunshine inspired a general cheer, Maewen smothered the good feeling before it could fester into anything hopeful.
“They soak the ground the day before,” she said, “and now they let the sun shine so we will be more visible as we travel.”
As a consequence, the half-elf led them off the road and into the wild earlier than she had intended. While she did not know where the protection of Elde Luri Mora faded, she wanted to make the point of their departure from the road as unpredictable as possible. It was now midday the day after they turned off the road. The woods provided ample cover for them and any enemies that wanted to spy on them. No one talked save under the direst need.
The Chalaine thought of Gen constantly. Dason always flickered in and out of her peripheral vision now, and as good a man as he was, she needed Gen’s company. She missed his wisdom, his devotion, and his strength, but most of all she found herself longing for his irreverent sense of humor. His carefree smiles and conversation in the canyon had cast all her worries into objects of ridicule that she could manage or dismiss. With him gone, the shadows of her fears stretched long and wide across her heart.
And the biggest of those shadows is cast by Chertanne, she thought, smiling wanly at the joke she knew Gen would make of such a statement.
Chertanne spent his time near Padra Athan, the two frequently leaning close, heads together in some private counsel. From time to time her husband would look over his shoulder to throw her an odd, pained look. While her mother would not reveal the details of her conversation with Athan outside the building near Elde Luri Mora, the Padra was obviously deeply offended or troubled by what she said. For her part, Mirelle remained as poised and calm as ever.
As the Chalaine did twenty times a day, she slipped her hand inside her cloak and into the pocket where she kept Gen’s animon, the stone the Millim Eri had given her. Its warmth provided comforting testimony that her Protector still lived. Her mother had disclosed to her earlier that day that she thought Gen had very likely escaped, though she would not give her reasons for this hope.
Beside her rode Fenna, face cast in an unrelenting scowl. Geoff rode behind his wife as if dragged by a chain, the feather that had once seemed so indomitable now drooping unceremoniously off to the side. Fenna wouldn’t look at him, speak to him, or acknowledge the many little kindnesses he extended to her during the day. Of all the caravan, Geoff was the only person the Chalaine pitied more than herself.
While she knew she should think more kindly of Fenna, the Chalaine wanted to slap her every time she bemoaned her forced marriage to Geoff. Geoff doted on her, and before their wedding Fenna had preferred the bard’s company over any other, including Gen’s, though she would never admit to it. The Chalaine considered her former handmaiden’s treatment of Geoff as undeservedly punitive and hoped Fenna would mend her ways before the bard went mad.
The Chalaine sighed, ducking a low branch as they wound through the thick trunks of tall trees. The forest floor was clear of detritus and rolled gently around small rills. The leaves had just started to turn, edges hinting at yellows and reds to come. The thick canopy of high branches admitted spotty light to pepper the ground, and the Chalaine judged the place pleasant enough, though the gloom in her heart stripped her of any enjoyment of the scene.
Maewen, who ran as often as she rode, strode to her side. “How is your wrist, Lady Khairn?” she asked.
“Please call me Chalaine, if you will. The wrist is quite fine. I hardly feel it anymore.”
“I am surprised,” Maewen returned. “It should have taken far longer to heal. Perhaps I misjudged the damage done.”
“Perhaps. At least it is one piece of good fortune.” While the quick healing of her wound was unexpected, the Chalaine also felt unusually fit. While those around her groaned or slumped with weariness, she awoke each day stronger and more alert than the one before.
“Maewen?” the Chalaine asked, noticing the half-elf preparing to run ahead.
“Yes, Chalaine?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Have you ever heard of someone named Samian?”
Maewen’s head snapped around, eyes wide.
“Yes. Where have you heard this name?”
“Since I’ve worn the stone necklaces Gen had you give me, I see this man every night. He is in some magnificent Cathedral. Gen taught me enough of the old tongue that I know that he is speaking it. But besides exchanging names, we have understood little of each other. It is strange. It is a dream, but it is far too lucid and real to be just something from my own head. What do you know of him?”
Maewen turned her head away, but the Chalaine thought she caught some tender emotion on her face before the half-elf could hide it. “He was a human leader during the First Mikkikian War. He lived among the elves, took one to wife, and had a child by her.”
“Here, let’s try something,” the Chalaine suggested, removing the necklaces. “Wear them tonight and see if he comes to you when you sleep. Maybe you can figure out what he is saying. He seems quite urgent about something, and I think he’s even said your name a couple of times.”
The Chalaine expected protest to her offer but got none, Maewen grabbing the stones and donning them immediately. “Thank you, Chalaine. I will see what I can mak
e of it.”
Maewen loped off to the front of the party as a hill steeper than most rose before them. The half-elf led them to the east of it along a small creek that proceeded from a still forest pool. As they stopped to water the horses, the Chalaine noticed Athan saying something to Chertanne, who looked at her and then rode to her side. She exhaled roughly. Since leaving Elde Luri Mora the Chalaine had counted herself blessed for never finding herself in her husband’s company.
“Lady Khairn,” he greeted her nervously. The Chalaine wondered if he had ever had a meaningful conversation with a woman in his life.
“Lord Khairn,” she returned politely.
“What were you and Maewen speaking about earlier?”
“Nothing of consequence. She was just checking on the condition of my wrist.”
“Oh.” He patted his horse and looked around.
This is the part where you ask me about my wrist, too, you dolt, she thought.
He raised his head and regarded her briefly. “I shall have the horse put down for throwing you once we return. So, how were you brought up?”
The Chalaine almost laughed at the ham-handed question—Athan at work. “Well, I lived mostly confined in my Chambers. I was tutored in reading and history by the best available scholars, and every day I was asked to recite the prophecy and listen as a wide variety of Churchmen outlined my duty to remind me of the frightful consequences that must occur as a result of any deviation from an absolutely moral life. I only left the Chambers or the castle complex to heal people in the city. And you? I imagine your lifestyle and instruction were quite different from mine.”
Chertanne nodded. “At first they confined me to Ironkeep, but when I grew older, the Churchmen, scholars, and Warlords had a weeklong debate about whether I should be allowed out more often. The Churchmen wanted to keep me safe, the Warlords wanted me visible, and the scholars were divided. I was so tired of being cooped up by that time that I informed them I would leave when I pleased, and the argument ended.