by CJ Brightley
“What are you…” he started again, and I put my hand over his mouth again, none too gently this time.
“Silence, I said,” I hissed in his ear. I pushed him into the darkness ahead of me. He suddenly thrashed, and I heard a distant shout from a different direction. How many of them were out there? I twisted Hakan’s arm up painfully behind him and heard him whimper, suddenly compliant. I muttered in his ear, “People are hunting you. When I tell you to be silent, I’m trying to save your neck.”
He nodded hurriedly, and I let his arm down. “Now follow me.” I listened a moment, but didn’t hear much, and so I led him deeper into the woods away from the road, northwest of our fire.
The moon was new, and the starlight was faint and unreliable. Even with snow on the ground, the darkness was thick, and I picked our way slowly. Silence was of greater importance than distance.
At last I thought we had left them behind, and I told Hakan to sit down behind a tree with my pack and not to move until I fetched him. I crept back carefully through the darkness, listening for every sound. I heard voices near our fire, and edged closer so I could see more clearly. Five kedani stood around the smoky coals, the ruined pheasant covered in ash and grit. One of them was poking at the coals.
“Hasn’t been long. Think it’s him?”
“I doubt it. You think he could make a fire?” The leader frowned thoughtfully and nudged the pheasant with the toe of his boot. “Should be able to hunt though. Could be.”
The others stared off into the darkness, eyes scanning the trees, and I tried to read the insignia on the leader’s sleeve. One of them shifted and I slipped closer, my steps slow and careful. The Second Division Kedani. They were out of Kesterlin. Were they still under Commander Basajaun? If I’d been sure, I might have approached them, asked why they were bothering lone travelers, asked for news. But I thought Koray Basajaun had been transferred. Not that it mattered much; his men wouldn’t know me, even if he did.
“Tracks here.”
Phraa. I had brushed at them, but only enough to conceal that there were two sets… the broken snow was obvious. I started toward the fire, letting my steps crunch on the snow and twigs beneath. “Who are you?” My voice was hard, rough. They startled and edged around the fire toward me, uneasy, and I frowned more menacingly.
The leader drew himself taller and answered, “Commander Neel Orjado. Who are you?” He was tense, nervous. “And why did you flee?”
I looked him and the others over, scowling. “Why did you barge into my campsite?” I glanced at the pheasant and glared at them again. “Can a man not camp half a league into the woods in peace?
The leader narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing half a league in the woods?”
I knelt and picked up the pheasant by one thin leg and held it up. “Trying not to have to share my dinner with beggars.” I tossed it at his feet and stared across at him. The commander was young, and perhaps had never even seen a Dari before. He was intimidated, though I had been careful not to say anything overtly threatening. Nothing to provoke a fight, just to make them uncomfortably aware that I wasn’t afraid of one.
He glanced at one of the others and finally said more agreeably, “Have you seen this boy?” He pulled a parchment from his uniform, but I didn’t look at it.
I growled, “I’ve seen no one. That’s why I’m half a league into the woods. Didn’t want to see anyone.”
“No one?” The commander held out the parchment and I glanced at it and shook my head.
“No. Convict?”
“No. Just a boy.” He shifted uneasily. “Safe travels then.”
I grunted and bowed slightly, the bow of a commoner to a soldier, and they returned the courtesy, albeit hurriedly. I watched them leave, and finally slipped off into the darkness to find Hakan. I found him shivering where I left him, and pulled him silently after me farther into the forest.
We stayed off the road after that, and it slowed our progress. The snow was fluffy and knee deep in places, and it took us over an hour to work our way to a ridge. The wind was worse there but the snow was much less and we made better time. I pulled kiberries off the branches as we walked. I love the woods, the fluttering thud of snow falling from the trees, the quiet shrill shriek of cold wood, the smell of pine. It wasn’t until late afternoon that Hakan spoke again.
“Are we going to have lunch?”
We hadn’t had breakfast either, so eager had I been to put distance behind us.
“Aye.” I stopped and slung my pack to the ground. “Here. We’ll make a fire tonight, but for now chew on this.” It was the end of bread that Ursin had given us the night before. I should go hunting.
He was chewing on some berries as well, looking a little green. “Thanks. Do you like these?” He put another berry in his mouth.
“Aye. Don’t you?” I took a swig of water from my canteen. In truth I should have noticed earlier, but he’d been walking behind me. When I actually saw what he was eating, I struck the remaining berries from his hand.
“Here, drink as much water as you can and then vomit. Now.”
He looked up at me in shock. “Why?”
“Those are lushenberries, not kiberries. How many have you eaten?”
“I don’t know. A couple handfuls maybe.”
“Then drink! Quickly.”
He did, tilting his head back and downing the entire canteen.
“Now make yourself vomit.”
He looked at me in disbelief.
“It’s now or later. They won’t kill you, but the more you get out now the less you’ll suffer. Here, drink this too.”
I dug his canteen out of his pack and handed it to him. It was the last of our water, but there was plenty of snow to melt. The water would make the berries come up more easily. He drank again, suddenly heaving about halfway through. I grabbed the canteen from him before he spilled it, and he vomited a little water.
“More. All of it, if you can.”
He was feeling it a little, and leaned his hands on his knees. I rescued the bread still clenched in one hand. He’d want it later to settle his stomach.
“Go on.”
If it had been me, I would have stuck my finger in my throat to save myself the suffering later. I had to do it once before battle, when I’d eaten something bad. Better to suffer in camp than be ill in battle, when a moment of inattention could cost your life.
“If you touch the back of your tongue with your finger, you’ll vomit soon.”
He shook his head in refusal. We waited. He stood and walked around, then bent to vomit water and lushenberries into the bushes. Then again, with less water. After several times, he was shaking and unsteady on his feet, and I helped him to sit on the trunk of a fallen tree.
“Is that all of it?”
He shook his head.
“Here, rinse your mouth. I’ll be back. I’m going to get dinner.”
If he had any left in him, we would be here all night, and he wouldn’t be vomiting. Phraa. There was little I could do for him, and I cursed myself for not paying better attention. I should have known he wouldn’t know the difference between kiberries and their poisonous cousins lushenberries, but I wasn’t used to having to attend to a boy who didn’t know anything about the forest.
I placed traps on several rabbit trails with bits of thong and bent saplings, then took out my little crossbow. It was very small, made for birding, with delicate blunted darts and exquisite accuracy. The design was a modification of the short bows used by the suvari archers. The kedani was just starting to use larger crossbows, forming new groups of crossbowmen, but it was slow going. The larger ones had a different system of stringing that was not entirely worked out yet, and they were suffering problems with accuracy.
I had larger, razor pointed arrows for hunting deer as well, but I didn’t see any that day. I took three purflins. I also saw a beautiful golden hawk, but of course you can’t shoot a golden hawk. The stillness of the forest crept into my heart, and
I breathed easier in the clean sharp scent of snow and pine needles. The crisp dry air made me feel fresh and alive.
Only one of my traps had taken a rabbit; they hadn’t been out long. I killed it and took all the traps down and made my way back to where I had left Hakan.
He was sitting, pale and unhappy, on the same tree trunk where I had left him.
“How are you feeling?”
He shook his head. “Not good.” His voice was choked and miserable.
Poor boy. The fault was mine more than his.
“Take care which leaves you use to wipe yourself. Don’t use those.” I pointed at some poisonvine across the clearing.
He nodded. In a few minutes, he stood shakily and walked into the woods to squat miserably.
He came back for dinner, the fire warming us as the temperature dropped. He shivered unhappily, but I think he felt too wretched to complain. He spent much of the night squatting in the woods, and I was glad the cold stole away the smell of the foulness. I ate lushenberries once. It’s a mistake one only makes once.
When I woke in the grey dawn, he was finally wrapped in his cloak, sleeping fitfully. I let him sleep, remembering my own misery. I got up and fed the fire, laying my cloak over him before moving off into the woods. Another three purflins were easy to find, and good clean snow to melt for water. Tubers, kiberries, onions, and a few mushrooms rounded out the meal, smelling delicious as they roasted over the fire. I’m not an especially good cook, but fresh roasted purflins and mushrooms always taste wonderful in the morning. The air promised a clear day, the light cold and bright.
Hakan rose in the late morning, shaky and very pale.
“Can you walk today?”
He nodded hesitantly, and I smiled. Good. Now that he had something to complain about, he was a little braver. When he ate, he had the finicky manners of a nobleman. He wiped his mouth between every bite and held the skewer between the tips of his fingers delicately, as if it was made of silver rather a slim branch of birchwood. He looked a little green still, but when we started off again he made a good attempt to keep up. My estimation of him rose a little, though that isn’t saying much.
I had to keep reminding myself to slow my pace, but I didn’t let him stop until we ate a late lunch. An empty stomach would be no bad thing for him, and the exertion would help soothe the fever and its clammy sweatiness. He ate lunch well enough, and I showed him the differences between kiberries and lushenberries.
Lushenberry poison is vicious. If he didn’t know that, he probably didn’t know anything else about the forest either. He had much to learn, but I’d try to make the other lessons more pleasant.
I hadn’t decided yet what to do with him. When I was discharged from the army, the freedom was disconcerting, almost uncomfortable, but in those last years I’d enjoyed it. Solitude. Peace. I might have resented that sudden responsibility for the prince’s life, but in truth I didn’t mind it much. I would have helped any innocent boy in fear of his life, though Hakan was perhaps more irritating than some.
But after that? I didn’t know whether I should try to help him regain his throne, or try to get him safely over a border into Rikuto or Ophrano. He’d be able to claim refuge there, though he’d have to learn some sort of trade to earn his living. The alternative, helping him in some attempt to regain his throne, was less than enticing. Vidar had credibility for good reason. Hakan would have to give me reason to believe in him before I risked either of our necks for his throne.
“Where are we going?”
“Northeast, to the hills.” The same place we were going before, though I’d taken us north of the road, no longer paralleling it.
“You served in the suvari, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“Why didn’t we buy horses when we were in Four Corners? Horses would make travel much faster.”
“Aye. But you need to walk.”
“What? Why?” He was insulted and took no pains to hide it.
“You’re soft. If you want to take back your throne, you must earn it.”
“You would punish me for being born a prince instead of a foundling?” The words were flung at my back angrily.
“There’s no punishment intended. Vidar has earned the people’s trust, but he doesn’t have the right to the throne. You have the right, but no one’s trust. You must be worthy of that trust if you expect people to accept you.”
“I was born to be king! I was trained for it.” I wondered where his doubt had gone. His voice sounded just as I might have imagined the voice of a spoiled prince would. Petulant and irritable. Superior.
“Aye, by your father, no doubt.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course by my father!”
“Your father squandered the trust we had in him long ago. You cannot rely on that.”
“Now you would insult my father as well?” I could hear his anger.
“It’s the truth, and none of my doing that he lost the people’s trust. No doubt you have many good qualities, but no one can judge that until you show them.” I didn’t want to be unfair. In the palace, it would have been difficult for him to see his father’s failures or the struggles of the common people. Not to mention the problems in the army that served Erdem so steadfastly.
“What will they expect of me, then?”
Good, he was rational enough to control his anger, to ask for information, and hopefully to use it.
“From Vidar they expect protection from Rikuto and the Tarvil. That’s why they’ll accept him. He earned their trust through honorable service in the kedani. If you would take your throne, you must also be able to provide that protection. They must believe that you can provide it.” The ability to protect the people and the people’s trust in that ability are two entirely separate things.
“I’ve studied my father’s leadership of the army. He made many mistakes, no doubt, but he wasn’t aware of the extent of people’s frustration.” His voice was no longer angry. Frustrated, perhaps, and proud, but not angry.
I smiled a little. “I don’t ask you to justify your father’s decisions. You’re only responsible for what you do and the decisions you make.”
We walked in silence for some time, until we were confronted with one of the many rocky outcroppings that run west to east through the forest from the hills at the base of the Sefu Mountains. The rockface wasn’t very high, only four times my height, but I didn’t trust Hakan not to fall since I doubted he’d climbed much before. I knotted the rope about his hips and through his legs to form a harness.
“Did you learn this in the army too?”
“Aye, in the kedani.”
He frowned. “I thought you would just knot it around my waist.”
“That’s a good way to injure yourself.”
He watched me tie the other end loosely around my own waist. “What about you?”
I smiled. “I’m just taking the rope up with me; there will be no weight on it. You’ll follow me, and if you fall I can catch you.”
He nodded, and I began climbing.
There were many flat shelves for my toes and fingers. I reached the top in only a few moments and called back to Hakan that he could start up after me. He climbed well enough, but I hadn’t realized how much easier my long arms and legs made the climb. He struggled for handholds where I’d simply reached farther to the next easy shelf. He finally made it to the top, panting and redfaced, and we started back on our way.
It was only an hour before we reached the next outcropping, and again we climbed. It took Hakan nearly twenty minutes to reach the top, but he didn’t fall. I gave him a hand when he got close to the top, hauling him up the last few feet. He lay on his back breathless for a few minutes, flexing his fingers.
“What happens if you fall? You don’t have a rope.” He asked as we started back on our way. It was nearly time to stop for the evening if I wanted light to cook dinner.
“I fall.” I hadn’t proven that by experience, but it seemed a reasona
ble assumption.
He frowned a little and nodded thoughtfully.
We walked in silence for some time before I found the place we would stop. It was a sizable clearing, the soil rocky but mostly covered with moss or ragged clumps of grass. I built our fire close by one end, and Hakan watched me work. He would have to begin helping me the next day, but for that night there was little else to do. He spoke as I was preparing a rabbit to roast, carrots and tubers sitting ready.
“You think I need to be a warrior to earn the people’s trust?”
I’d been thinking about the question much of the afternoon, and so my answer was more ready than usual. “You need to be disciplined and steady. Courageous. Willing to suffer for what you believe in. Willing to die if necessary. You must have a plan that the people believe will actually succeed. No, you need not be a warrior, but you need many of the traits of a warrior.”
He hesitated, looked away. He fiddled with a small stick, methodically breaking it into tiny pieces as the silence drew longer.
Finally he asked, “Will you teach me?”
I blinked in surprise, and the silence drew out again as I thought. “To be a king?” I was hardly qualified to do that.
He licked his lips. “To be a leader. To be worthy of the throne.”
I smiled. That I could do, if he was willing to learn. “It will not be easy.”
He nodded.
“Aye. I will teach you. We’ll start tomorrow.”
We fell into silence while the food cooked over the fire, a more comfortable silence than we’d enjoyed thus far. In my heart, I had not commited myself to his throne, but what I intended to teach him would do him good whether he ever became king or not. Courage. Perseverance. A bit of skill with a sword. Woodcraft. Things to keep him alive, should he need to fend for himself.